Grossing Out the Grossest

As the mother of three boys, I spend more time than I would like saying, "Stop that. That's gross." They like to talk about disgusting things, do disgusting things, and show me disgusting things. (No, I do not want to see the dead shrew in the garden, thank you so much, son.)

I got a little bit of revenge with Cubby yesterday, though.

When I was gathering trash in the morning in preparation for A.'s dump run, I moved the bag of trash and the trash can in the enclosed porch to find a few dozen maggots squirming around underneath them.

Yuck.

As I really didn't want those maggots becoming yet more flies that inevitably end up in my house, I swept them up and put them in a bucket so I could drown them in water. But then I remembered the chickens. Chickens LOVE maggots. So instead of drowning the loathsome things, I called Cubby over and asked him to take the bucket of maggots to the chickens.

He looked in the bucket, made a face, and stuck a stick through the handle of the bucket, as if the thought of touching the bucket the maggots were in was just too much for him.

So of course, I had to elaborate on how delicious those maggots were for the chickens; how the chickens have never had such a delectable treat; how chickens love nothing better than live maggots.

"MOM, STOP," said Cubby. "That's gross!"

HAHA. I WIN.