Firebird descends to the kitchen in a state of disgust and panic holding her beloved bunny rabbit to me. Out of its tummy come crawling dozens of little insects. We have company and I am instantly embarrassed. Someone cries out ‘Baby cockroaches!’. This does not help to calm her down. She searches desperately for a can of insecticide and is about to douse her soft toy with poison when I intervene. I remove its entrails, which is really a wheat bag, that had been stored in the back of a wardrobe in 30 degree Celsius for six months in high humidity. No wonder there are weevils. I then take the poor creature to the back of the house and whack it firmly, several times, over the drain. Weevils fall out. Then my fingers dive in and carry out rough surgery to remove the hanger-ons. Finally I turn its stomach inside-out and expose it to the bleach of the tropical sun.
Later that night, a lone weevil falls out of my hair while I’m reading. I pick it up and flush it down the toilet. How is it that I, who used to turn queasy at the sight of cockroaches, can deal so efficiently with a weevil-filled stomach? Being a mother makes us all into some kind of hero.
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