Really. I don’t like butterflies.
I’m not phobic about them or anything. I just…well, I just…okay, yeah, they kinda scare me. When they start fluttering around me, I want them to go away. And if waving or brushing them away doesn’t work, then yes, I’ll actually squish them.
My mom tells me a story about when I was a very young child. Apparently, I had a series of nightmares involving large swarms of butterflies. I had these curtains in my bedroom, with an abstract geometric pattern on them. When the soft summer breeze blew through my open bedroom window, and the streetlight outside of our house shone just right onto the curtains, my sleepy-four-year-old brain saw swarms of butterflies coming in to my room. My parents figured it out after a couple of weeks, and my mom says that she immediately yanked the curtains down and put up a nice Swiss dot pattern, and the nightmares stopped.
But some sort of damage was done to my tender little psyche, and to this day, I simply do not like butterflies. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t. Not in real life, not in pictures, not in clothing patterns, not under glass. I don’t run screaming from them, but if I can avoid them, I do.
Unfortunately, my six-year-old daughter LOVES butterflies. Kitties are her favorite, but butterflies are a REAL close second. She took a field trip to a butterfly house a couple of weeks ago, too. Thank Goddess they already had enough chaperones.
Go ahead and make fun of me now. Please. I haven’t been harassed in a very long while, and I’m due.