Revenge

Earlier this summer, when I realized both my children could climb the silver maple in the backyard, I moved the lava rocks that were underneath it. The rocks didn't look very nice anyway. I think this house's previous owners intended for the rocks to look artfully placed, but to me they just looked like a couple lava rocks dropped at the base of a tree.

So I moved the rocks, and lo! the ants did scurry. Ants had nests beneath nearly every rock; when I moved the rocks I exposed the pupa. I felt badly about it. I did! I covered the pupa with an inch of dirt, hoping that would save them.

A week or so later we noticed that the ants had moved their colonies to the sandy spaces between the pavers of our back deck. My husband said we should kill them; he said that eventually they'd force us to re-lay the pavers. Ah, I thought. That's my fault. But we left them alone.

Two months later, as you know, those same ants have entered my house. Yesterday I found some on my kitchen counter.

And that is the limit to my ant empathy.

Yuck! It's disgusting! When I chop vegetables I'm just sure an ant will climb onto the cutting board and get mixed into the salad. What if I mistake an ant for a sliver of basil and EAT IT? Aack!

Clearly the ant traps I bought aren't working, so I researched alternatives. Borax, said the internet. Bleach, said the internet. Vinegar, said the internet. Baby powder, said the internet.

Baby powder being the least toxic and smelly of those choices, I dug out the bottle left from Sasha's infancy. I sprinkled a line of powder across the kitchen. I sprinkled some where I thought they were entering the living room.

That was three hours ago. I don't want to declare victory too soon; but?

THEY'RE GONE.


(Can I return to my lazy ways in the kitchen now?)