A bat flew into my kitchen last week. It was just after 8pm. Grady was playing in his room (at the front of the house) and Poppy was chilling in her bouncy chair on the patio (the back of the house) and I was in the kitchen (in between the two). The bat flew through the French doors that lead from the patio to the kitchen and wildly circled above my head.
It was one of the hottest days we've had so far this year and the air was stifling so I'd opened the house to try to get some air moving. Shawn was at a work event and wasn't expected home until hours later.
My heart started pounding and I couldn't take a full breath. I was torn. Go to the (totally defenseless, wearing only a diaper) baby or go to the sure-to-engage-and-probably-make-things-worse five-year-old?
Now, before you say it, I know it was just a bat. I know. But in the moment it didn't matter. I was in full panic mode. The bat was flying so quickly and erratically. It swooped near my face a few times and even though I'm sure it wasn't closer than two feet, in the moment it felt like two inches.
We live in a neighbourhood that until very recently was classified as rural. There's a creek that runs behind our house. We frequently see bears and coyotes and other wildlife. Most of the time I love living at the bottom of our little mountain.
However. I draw the line at bats in my home.
I finally unfroze and grabbed Poppy from her chair and called to Grady to run downstairs and knock on Papa's door. I've never been so grateful to share a home with Shawn's dad. He came upstairs and as I shook and (unsuccessfully) pretended I wasn't scared so Grady wouldn't develop a bat fear of his own, he climbed up on his ladder and threw a blanket over the bat. He took it outside and released it back into the night sky and I closed up the house forever and ever amen.