A white and purple tub of cottage cheese, once emptied and clean makes a wonderful home. There is space for an abundance of grass, a couple sticks, and one small medicine cup to serve as refreshment. 

“He’s drank like, 6 cm., Mom so I need to get him some more water,” says Kyle.

I wonder how my son knows this amidst all the teaspoon and milliliter lines. No matter. I am not the expert.

Over the last day and a half I’ve watched as three, light-brown heads have spent endless fascinated minutes over that plastic bowl. I’ve heard giggles only an animal can bring out of my girls. And I’ve reminded Kyle to please not open the container on my bed. Please.

 I’ve only seen Mr. Grasshopper through the cracks of sun-kissed hands but if I had to guess, I’d say he’s miserable. He is the butt of their jokes, their rag-doll, their entertainment. And I’m not going to stop it on his behalf. I’d rather hear the giggles.

Shortly after capture Kyle asked me, “Mom, can I keep him until he dies?”

“Sure.”

To which Daddy replies, “So we just kill bugs.”

Basically.