Oh, HELL no.

As the mother of two rambunctious little boys, I've become used to what I like to call "The Ick Factor" in my life. It's gone up by about a gazillion since Aaron was born, and even more so since they've developed their own personalities and spend so much time in the Out Of Doors*.

Now, I'm not talking about the mild stuff, like finding a plastic snake next to the milk in the refrigerator, left there, no doubt, to make me shriek. (It doesn't. It does make me laugh, though.) I'm talking about the stuff that makes me want to crawl into a fetal ball and rock after shivering and flailing with revolted abandon.

I spare you of some of this, friends. I don't tell you all of the awful truths.

You're welcome.

But this... this weekend's Ick involves a crustacean.

( Buckle up, buttercups. This one's kind of long. )