My husband was not yet working, so he was home during the day, doing all of the things that husbands do while trying to whittle away at the honey do list his wife had posted on the refrigerator. Taking a step back to explain a little, this was one of the times that the toad had not made his exit out of the garage before we closed it for the night.

He got the kids off to school, and went about clearing the stacks of empty boxes we had in our sunroom, which had previously held enough books to fully stock the shelves of the library in an Ivy League College.

As he was carrying these boxes out into the garage (I must tell you that he was barefoot), he went down the step that led into the garage, and his foot (did I mention he had no shoes on?) landed smack dab on top of the unfortunate toad. The result of which is, the toad never made it home. His family couldn't even have a burial for him because after my husband scooped up the remains and tossed them onto the grass, a vulture decided to have him for breakfast. No joke.

Because my husband and I are so in tune with each other and also very competitive, he immediately took over the "For the love of Paul and all that is holy, I am the owner of the grossest thing that ever happened in this family" award. And I was happy to keep it that way. And no, I don't know who Paul is, I just shouted that out in frustration at my youngest child one day when she came home, sopping wet, in school clothes, and brand new shoes ("but I just kind of slipped, and fell in the pond, and then rolled around in the sand").

Ok, where was I?

For a couple of years now, my husband has proudly held that honor, and almost lost it tonight. Besides toads, we also have an abundance of bugs. All kinds of bugs. Some of them are really big and I am convinced that one of these days (if the vultures don't do it first), a really ginormous bug will swoop down and carry off my child and raise it as one of their own.

When I came home from work tonight, I noticed that one of these bugs, which was a cockroach, laying on its back, and all 100 of its legs were swirling around like a ceiling fan gone psycho. I made a mental note to sweep the bug out of the garage after I had changed my clothes. I forgot.

It's important to note here that the cockroach was laying, dead center, in front of the doorway to the garage. After finishing up the stuff I needed to do, I made my way towards the garage, and ultimately my car, to remove the cookie dough I had picked up from the school on my way home (band fund raiser).

Did I mention I was barefoot? Can you see where this is going? Yes. I did. Crunch. You know, as a mom, I can tell you that I have experienced any number of things that are gross, but I must say that stepping on a cockroach, in my bare feet, was enough to make me want to hork in the nearest trash can. That whole crunching feeling? And the fact that it stuck on my foot? Was just too much for me.

I still say that my husband should hold on to the award. The idea of a smooshed cockroach is nothing compared to squashing a toad. But still.

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to help my child organize the cookie dough for delivery. And for the love of Paul and all that is holy, I am wearing my shoes.