The Ants Go Marching One by One . . .

I love summer.  The colors.  The heat.  The beach.  The ants. 

Ahh, yes.  Every summer like clockwork my house suddenly becomes infested with tiny little sugar ants.  On the counters.  On the table.  Scrambling out from under my keyboard.  (I know, disgusting, right?) 

Let me just say this about "critters":  I aim to coexist peacefully with almost all of God's creatures . . . until they enter my home.  There I draw the line.  Snakes in the garden?  Wonderful.  They keep the mice out of my house.  Squirrels scampering up and down the trees in my yard?  Delightful.  Just keep your bushy little tails out of my attic.

When you get into my house, however, all bets are off.  Then it is war.  I have killed mice in all sorts of gruesome ways because I frankly don't want their disease-carrying little selves wandering around while I'm asleep.

My flyswatter comes out the second I see a fly, wasp, or other winged pest in my home.  Outside, that's a different story.  Live and let live, I say.  (Except for mosquitoes.  I can't think of a single positive attribute for those little monsters . . . death to them all!)

The only things I really don't mind in the house are spiders.  Every once in a while one gives me a turn, especially if it's especially large and hairy, but I like the fact that they prey on my winged nemeses, so they are welcome. 

I am happy to say that my children have adopted this attitude.  The other day we were in the garden admiring the blooming rhododendron when my daughter reached out to pat the bumblebees.  I fortunately prevented that act of boldness saying, "Honey, they'll sting you."  My priceless child looks at me and says, "They won't sting me, Mommy.  They like me."  Sure they do.  The thing is, I'm not entirely convinced she isn't correct! 

Where many of my kids' playmates start screaming at the sight of bugs, my kids come to me carrying gypsy moth caterpillars, beetles, spiders . . . anything they come across.  I take pride in their fearless curiosity.  I keep telling myself they're entomologists in the making. 

I have tainted their perception of the aforementioned sugar ants, though.  I find them a blight, and my kids are mimicking me.  They smack them with their hands and call them foul names.  (You know, "Stupid sugar ants!") 

It's funny that they bother me so much.  Aside from crawling all over the place and popping up in the most unexpected places, they don't really harm anything.  They don't carry diseases . . . do they?  They don't sting . . . that I know of.  They don't leave feces . . . at least none that I can see.  So why my abhorrence? 

I think it stems from the first summer the ants came marching in.  I figured it meant I was the world's worst housekeeper.  Bleach became my best friend.  I practically lived with a spray bottle in my hand. 

When I finally overcame my humiliation enough to tell my sister--what are ants between sisters?!--she exclaimed, "Oh, I HATE them!  They're all over my house, too!" 

Really?  I know it isn't the level of cleanliness in her house.  My sister keeps an amazing house.  With three kids and a luthier shop in the basement, nonetheless. 

Then she informed me that the little buggers were coming in for water, which is why they generally congregate around sinks, tubs, potted plants, fish bowls.  They are in heaven in my house! 

I have tried many different tricks with these guys, but I always come down to one difficulty: if it's toxic to the ants, it's probably not too good for the kids and the dogs.  When the kids were smaller, I could secret bait stations behind the couch and far back on the counter.  Now that they are stronger, taller, and adept at using stools I'm afraid they will be able to get into them. 

No more poison for me. 

So I am back to my futile attempt at uber-cleanliness.  Every surface gets a Clorox wipe several times a day.  Sugary foods/drinks are at an all-time low, and post-snack cleaning is a must.  The irritating thing is that I KNOW I am not hindering them enough to say so. 

But hey, a girl can try, can't she?