Yesterday a gecko made his way into the house. In six years of living here, that has happened two other times. Liam helped take care of the most recent of these. The other I was pregnant with you, and since I didn't keep a blog during that time, I thought I'd share this memory with you.
I woke up during the night--probably to go to the bathroom--and went to the kitchen for a drink of water. On my way back to bed something caught my eye on the living room floor, slightly illuminated by the moonlight. Everything is a bit more ominous in the dark, so rather than just scooping it up, I bent down and poked it, looking for clues. My first thought was a gummy worm, but knew that wasn't right, so I poked it again. Slowly, as my eyes somewhat adjusted, a thought registered in my mind and I caused me to take a couple steps back. I flipped the light switch on the wall, and walked back to the unidentified object with dread. I looked down, and as my fears were confirmed, let out a terrified scream...or two...or more. Daddy had been sleeping but ran into the living room faster than I would have thought possible, certain I had cut off my hand or was being held at gunpoint. When all he found was a gecko on the floor, he was pretty stunned.
But to me it wasn't just a gecko. It was a gecko that had been torn apart by our cats and I had touched it. TWICE. Plus, this one was transparent and I could see all of it's gross insides through its thin skin. And the eyes...ewww, the eyes. I tried to explain all this through my sobs while holding my right hand out to the side as if it was leprous. Though he didn't understand, Daddy pretended he did and walked me to the kitchen sink so I could wash my hands. Once there I refused to touch my right hand with my left. So he washed it for me.
In hindsight I'm thinking hormones might have played a small role in this situation.