Enough is enough

My parents have visited a couple of times over the last week or so and we’ve spent time in the garden.

With me prancing around her, ready to hotfoot it to another part of the garden if she came across what she calls ‘one of those things you don’t like’, my mum tackled the flowerbed and the rockery - weeding properly, as opposed to my pathetic attempts, which involve picking weeds, rather than digging them up.

For those of you who are new-ish to this blog (and haven’t spent six hours reading everything – sorry, I’m still gobsmacked about that), hello, my name is Bub and I have a worm phobia which pales into insignificance compared to my fear of snakes; not that there’s many of those round these here parts – I hope… although my mum has bought up the subject of slow worms which yes, I know are technically lizards, BUT;

lizard + no legs = snake.

She told me they are a protected species, so I couldn’t do anything to harm one should I ever come across one.

Harm one.

Yeah, right.

We then had a discussion about fight or flight.

When it comes to worms, snakes and now slow worms, I’m firmly in the flight category. There’s no incentive big enough to make me want to get anywhere near one, let alone harm one, not even if it involves my children.

Years ago, when Eldest Daughter was about six years old, we were walking to school, Youngest Daughter was in the pushchair and it started to rain. Being early summer, we had no coats or umbrellas, so Eldest Daughter grabbed her book bag from the tray underneath the pushchair and held it over her head.

We got to the school door, Eldest Daughter lowered the bag and I bent down to give her a kiss. I didn’t get as far as doing it, because to my horror there was a worm on the top of her head. It must have been kicked up by the pushchair wheels, got stuck on the book bag, which she’d then used as a rain shield.

I tried to contain my freakedoutness as best I could, so as not to scare the bejeebers out of her and told her to shake her head, as she had something on it.

The bastard thing stayed put.

By now, I was battling full-blown panic, Eldest Daughter was shaking her head like she was having a fit, and Youngest Daughter, being totally oblivious, was happily exploring the contents of her nose.

To my eternal shame, my I’d-do-anything-to-protect-my-offspring instinct upped and fled. “Fuck that shit,” it declared, looking over its shoulder as it disappeared into the far, far distance.

The teacher standing in the doorway, clearly wondering what was going on, came out and I, by now being unable to speak, just pointed at Eldest Daughter’s head as I backed further away. Looking at me like I’d totally lost the plot (which in all fairness, I had), the teacher calmly removed the worm.

To this day, being unable to save my own child still haunts me.

Although I’ve lived with this phobia for all these years, I’ve finally reached a point where enough is enough.

I know it’s illogical, ridiculous and downright daft.

I want to be able to comfortably walk outside after it’s been raining, with my head in the forward position rather than looking down all the time.

I want to stay calm and not have to peel myself off the ceiling if I catch a glimpse of a worm or snake on the tv, or in a book.

I want to be able to get out there and fuck things up learn from my mistakes regarding planty things in the garden.

Most importantly, I want to be able to save my children and/or grandchildren from worms on their head.

So.

Investigations are currently being made about getting this problem sorted professionally.

One day, in the not too distant future, I really hope I write a post which will include a picture of me (well, one of my hands) holding a worm.

Current Phobic Me: Gack!

Future Phobic Free Me: Bring it on!