My girlfriend’s oldest son, who is also the oldest brother to my son, hates bugs. He honestly believes bugs are all out to hurt us. He lashes out with absolute destructive force at every bug he sees, at every opportunity he is given. To his credit he is, like all 5-year olds, a boy of absolute conviction. Unfortunately, that conviction pretty much takes up his entire world-view at the moment.

Trying to convince Andrew that running past driveways is unsafe, or that when mommy is exhausted it’s colouring time, or that picking up the cat by its head is not a good idea, or that bugs serve a purpose, is like trying to convince a Evangelical Fundamentalist that Spencer Tracy out duelled Elliott Reid, and John Scopes should never have been found guilty.

That’s my neighbour handing off the dead and broken dragonfly (that I found) to Andrew. If Andrew had seen that beautiful, delicate insect while it was still alive, lets say perched on a flower, he would have circled it like a lion on a wounded groundhog, then jumped into the flower bed with great relish, smashing his way through in an explosion of petals until he had crushed the dragonfly under his SpiderMan sneakers.

But, after being handed the dead dragonfly, he gently carried it around, awestruck at how pretty it was. I honestly cannot wait for this kid to turn ten.