I started living my real life reality television show at about 7am, with the shrilling scream of fear that was expelled from my five year old’s little body, Helene, as she ran frantically around the house. The sound of terror grabbed at my heart, placing it in my stomach. I thought for sure, from the sound of her, that we were off to the emergency room with a broken bone or bleeding wound. However, to my surprise it was some sort of flying beetle that decided it was necessary to torment this little child, who in return went into drama queen overload overreacting to the circumstance. Of course, this occurred as I was attempting to ready myself for the day. So, there I was, clad in only a towel, chasing the flying beetle with a broom -- SWAT! Mission accomplished, allowing me to move on to the next tasking challenge in my real life reality show.

 

I finished dressing and primping myself for the day, and then attempted to answer some emails, when behind me I hear the heaving and gut wrenching sounds of my cat. See, she was 13 years old, had asthma, and was constantly barfing up hairballs. My stomach, still queasy from a bout with twenty-four hour stomach flu, felt like it wanted to emulate my cat's heaving. Nevertheless, I managed to maintain control. When I look at the damage my cat had done, there were two huge piles of grossly gooey cat barf. As I attempted cleaning the foul smelling mess, while talking my stomach into calmness, I heard my cat heaving again in the hallway, outside my office. Helene was yelling at me, "Mom the cat is puking again," as if I needed her to tell me that. Okay, I stammered my strength talked my own stomach into behaving, and moved on to the two smaller gifts of gross cat barf, when I see something crawling on the floor. My eyes go wide, and my skin pales with fear, as I watch it crawling toward me as I am finishing my cat puke cleaning challenge.

 

I bet you are thinking a mouse, but that would be too easy, and even a familiar story, which I have already lived through. No, no mouse this time. I could not be lucky enough to have a cute furry little mouse grace my presence for a second time. Instead, my morning would include a visit from a creepy crawly big black scorpion. Okay, so it really was not that big, but big enough to scare the heck out of me. Anything that looks like it could either pinch me and deliver pain or sting me, and possibly be poisonous, well then I am filled with fear. Along with fear, all intelligent sense had left my body through my feet, leaving me paralyzed and scared.

 

So now I am really thinking I woke up into an episode of Fear Factor. I run to the kitchen and grab my trusty broom and a container, figuring I could sweep it into the container like my husband had done the last time we had a visiting scorpion. He made it look so easy, with one sweeping motion and the scorpion was trapped. Nope, was not going to happen that way for me. This one was a little bigger than the last few, and it was mad as hell. The tail was thrashing about, and every time I tried to sweep it up, it ran faster and further away. I finally just decided I would squash the darn thing under the broom, and sweep the mess up after. This sounded very good in thought, but it did not seem to work as well. This made the scorpion angrier. When I lifted the broom to see if it was crushed, it ran right for my sandaled feet, and I quickly brought the broom down upon it again.

 

Standing there filled with fear, I was thinking, what am I going to do now? Could I possibly stand there in that position all day until my husband came home, could I maybe try sweeping it downstairs and out the door, or -- light bulb in my mind flicks on -- maybe some bug spray would slow it down and even kill it? I mean, is a scorpion not a sort of insect like critter?

 

I scream to Helene, "Helene honey, can you get mommy the bug spray from the cabinet?!" I did not want to move to get the bug spray myself, risking the scorpion escaping and turning up unexpectedly somewhere else in the house.

 

Helene calls back, "Mom I am not allowed to touch that, it's poison."

 

I tell her, "Oh, but honey this is an emergency and mommy needs you to get it."

 

She replies, "Are you sure?"

 

I sternly yell back, "Yes, I am sure!"

 

Helene answers back just as sternly, "But mommy, I think I should wait and ask daddy if I am allowed to get the bug spray, because you are going to get me in trouble if I listen to you!"

 

Still standing there with much force on the broom, hoping the scorpion would just stay put, I am thinking to myself how proud I am that my daughter knows not to touch poisons, yet frustrated that I cannot seem to convince her that it is okay this one time.

 

Finally, after several minutes of pleading and coaxing, I convince Helene to get me the bug spray. Once in hand, I practically flooded the floor with it, but it worked. The scorpion was moving very slow in a drunken-like way. I was able to sweep it into the container, which I placed on the kitchen table. Oh sure, I could flush it, which is my husbands usual choice for disposal, but I thought I should save my trophy and remind the family that even when I am not feeling well, I still run this home and I am the new Fear Factor champion -- minus winning the fifty grand.