The other night, as I was preparing for bed, I made my routine stop at the thermostat to adjust the air conditioning. This is a nightly ritual for me, right after ensuring the doors are locked, turning out the lights, and planting a gentle kiss on my son’s forehead. With my hand reaching for the touch screen, my mind wandered to the new book I had just purchased—hoping, of course, that it was on my bedside table and not still in the front seat of my car.
As I stood there, ready to tap the button, I caught sight of something that made my blood run cold—A SCORPION. Perched precariously on the thermostat, its sinister, yellowish tail swayed menacingly just inches from my finger. Instantly, my heart raced, and I felt a surge of panic wash over me.
I absolutely despise these creatures—if there’s a stronger word than “hate,” it deserves to be used here. Yes, I understand they play their part in the ecosystem, but they are just so unsettling. Feel free to judge me, but I can honestly say that if every scorpion on this planet met a gruesome fate, I wouldn’t shed a single tear. I’d even lead a chorus of jubilant songs celebrating our newfound freedom from these monstrous pests, especially as we reclaim the right to walk barefoot in our Arizona homes during summer.
Yet, there it was, this scorpion, threatening to ruin my evening tranquility. My fear was palpable, and I found myself uttering a long, drawn-out curse word.
You might be thinking, “Come on, you’ve lived in this house for a decade. You’ve dealt with scorpions before.” True enough, but the difference now is that I’m no longer married. In the past, my ex-husband would spring into action, either stomping on the intruder or trapping it under a box until he could deal with it later. Now, as a single mom, the responsibility fell squarely on my shoulders.
Having been divorced for a few months, this scorpion represented my greatest challenge yet. I was managing work, navigating the complexities of raising a special needs child, and trying to redefine family dynamics for my son. The scorpion was the final exam in this tumultuous chapter of my life, testing my courage and capabilities as a single parent.
I had to pass this test. I took a deep breath and marched to my closet, choosing a sturdy wedge shoe for battle. I steeled myself: ONE (deep breath), TWO (shoe raised high), THREE (stop counting, or you’ll freak out), GO!
With a swift motion, I knocked the scorpion off the thermostat and onto the floor. It attempted to escape, but I was determined. My primal scream echoed through the house, and I swung that wedge like a warrior wielding a sword—because it felt like my life depended on it.
After the first hit, I delivered two more strikes, just to be sure this scorpion wouldn’t rise again, like some creepy horror movie villain. After three whacks, it was finished.
Victorious, I celebrated with a little jig, which resembled something like a wedding dance gone awry. Suddenly, I heard my son’s worried voice behind me, “Mom, did you get it?”
Turning around, I found him clutching the wall, wide-eyed in his pajamas. “I got it, buddy. I was scared, but I got it.”
He smiled, relaxing visibly. “Good job protecting us, Mom! You are a killer of scorpions!”
His words warmed my heart. I wrapped my arm around his shoulders, reminding myself of the wisdom I often share with him: being brave isn’t about the absence of fear; it’s about facing that fear head-on.
With my son by my side and the demon-slaying shoe still in hand, I felt empowered. I can do this. I can be brave. I am indeed a killer of scorpions.
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