I think somewhere along the line something got fucked up.
People think the story about a boy crying "Wolf!" when there wasn't really a wolf is designed to teach kids not to invent bad things because when bad things actually happen people will never believe it.
I've learned the truth.
The origin of that story has to involve a woman rather than a boy.
And it doesn't involve a wolf.
Because, you see -- A kid in the woods seeing a wolf -- a wolf growling and with teeth bared, lips quivering... that kid won't scream or shout or yell or do anything as dramatic as what happens to me all the time.
Two nights in a row now, my wife has emitted a bone chilling scream which has made me think the baby must have fallen on his head and he's now bleeding to death out of the hole where his neck used to be.
However, there is no such disaster. No one has been hurt, no one is in danger. There is no problem whatsoever.
My wife's problem, and the source of the screaming which stops my heart dead in its tracks is much less threatening than any wolf or mortal injury.
Tonight, she saw a grasshopper. It was on the box of diapers she had bought earlier. Sometime in between putting it on the counter and eating dinner, the grasshopper had made its way to the box. My wife saw it from across the kitchen and let loose a horrendous screech, then she fled the room.
Last night there was a praying mantis on the wall near the door.
I don't know how these fucking things even get in the house - the mantis was really big - like too big to squash if I were the type of person who squashed bugs.
But, no matter the size, it's really not the type of thing to warrant a blood-curdling cry or the hours of huddling under the covers unable to sleep that ensued.
It's just a bug. What's it going to do? Eat you? I don't think so.
I picked up the grasshopper with my bare hand. Imagine that. I'm still OK.