5:45 am – Knocking at my bedroom door.
I peek out from my blankets at the alarm clock and groan. “What?”
Two sets of feet shuffle near my door. “Mommy, there’s a giant grillo in our room.”
I sit up in bed. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Can’t Daddy come kill it?” the 11 year old says. (He still calls us Mommy and Daddy. I can’t imagine that will last much longer.)
“Daddy went to work already,” I answer. “You’re the man of the house now. You have to kill it.”
The feet remain at my door. Nervous silence. A deep breath. “Okay.”
I feel a little guilty but I can’t kill it. I have a major fear of grillos. They’re like huge jumping cucarachas. I hate them. I hate them so much. ¡Qué horror! I cringe, and go back to sleep.
5:55 am – Screaming.
I slip some clothes on and get out of bed. I find our youngest son sitting on the dinner table the same way a woman stands on a chair when there’s a mouse in the kitchen. From the bedroom I hear our older son alternately smacking furniture with a chancla and yelping.
6:00 am – The grillo has declared a temporary victory as the kids had to get ready for school and he has hidden behind the heaviest piece of furniture in their bedroom. Every few minutes he chirps and it sounds like he’s laughing at us.