Sunday morning we woke up to screams. The kind of high pitched screams that can only be generated by a six-year-old girl who is beyond delirious with excitement. At first it jars you awake. But if you live with a six-year-old girl you know this scream and how it differs from a scream of terror (because you hear that all the time too) so you lay back down and groggily try to predict what wonder has occurred. Sunday it wasn’t too hard. The Dr. muttered “Flutterblies” and I mumbled, “I’m betting on it.”
We woke up to one butterfly and soon after breakfast I discovered another one. Over the next 48 hours 9 of our 10 have emerged from their cocoons. That one fellow is just going to be slow no matter what.
Here’s the thing they don’t tell you in the brochure. Evidently it’s kind of painful and bloody to leave the cocoon.
Oh and there is one more person around here who’s excited about the butterflies. Hanging them from the ceiling fan hasn’t done us much good.