Look at this...
From a different angle, perhaps?
I mean, really look at it...
And tell me it's not the most terrifying thing you've ever encountered. I mean, aside from the way I look first thing in the morning.
Really. I hate grasshoppers. And I'm not a bug hater. I'm the person that scoops up the spider in the bathtub and rather than stepping on it, I tie up its belongings into a little bandana and let it outside with bus money. I don't even take pleasure in killing flies. But grasshoppers. Are. The. Spawn. Of. All. Evil.
They are to.
They spit on you and have sticky little legs. They have beady eyes and crispy little bodies. I totaled a car once because of a grasshopper.
But despite this, um...aversion, I try to convince my children that they are just nice, friendly little bugs. No reason to run screaming into the house. Really. They're fine. They're fine. Shudder.
Delaney has no problem with them. Nick, however, is deathly afraid of the things. Not just "ew, grasshopper", but more "AHHHHHHHHHH!!! Oh God, Oh GOD! Get it OFF! AHHHHH!" Then he starts crying. No, sobbing. He is terrified of them.
It frustrates many of the manly men in my family.
"It's just a damn bug! It's not going to hurt you!" they say, repeatedly, as if those are the magic words that will suddenly make grasshoppers cute and furry.
And if I'm quite honest with myself, I realize that I do want him to be somewhat...I don't know. Tough? Masculine? I don't want all the little girls making fun of him because he saw a grasshopper and now he's curled up into a ball on the playground and is screaming bloody murder.
But grasshoppers...I completely understand. They make me want to wet myself. Makes me wonder...are bug phobias hereditary? Probably. As if my poor parenting skills weren't enough to scar him already, I had to pass down my faulty genes as well. Poor kid.