I think I know that if I study too much about ladybugs, I probably won’t like what I find. I’m afraid I’ll discover that they’re really not ladies at all. I’ll discover that they’re asexual dotted monsters with fangs and hearts that melt the world. Gardeners who know better have been waging war on ladybugs for centuries, but they’re losing. The odds aren’t in their favor.
Dreamers are to blame. And artists. And scientists.
Or, when my son comes home with a picture of a ladybug zoomed in a hundred times a hundred, it’s probably best for me to focus on the dishes. I don’t want to see her sharp hooks and artillery. I don’t want to see her glowing red eyes. Especially right before bedtime.
When I’m too tired to translate the world into something beautiful.