A couple of early mornings ago my daughter, Annaleigh, called me from college. Usually this is a happy thing. It usually means that I can hear about how her classes are going, how she’s getting along with the new roommates, what she ate for lunch, how much of our hard-earned money she’s spending on text books that the professor will not actually use, etc. But on this particular occasion it was nothing short of utter confusion. And a bit of terror. And being mute. And did I mention confusion? It went down like this…
I was asleep. I was dreaming. I was dreaming that I was babysitting my friend’s little girl, and for some reason I was in a bowling alley. Then some kind of alarm started going, and I kept thinking I should probably take the baby outside, but I just kept sitting in the bowling alley.
“Kellie. Kellie! KELLIE! YOUR PHONE IS RINGING!” Big D was shaking me awake, and the bowling alley and baby faded from my consciousness. “No, it isn’t,” I mumbled. But it was. I could see now that it was lit up on my bedside table, ringing and ringing.
“Who is it?!” Big D wanted to know. I squinted at the screen. It was either Abraham Lincoln or Annaleigh. I couldn’t quite tell because I wasn’t wearing my glasses or contacts, and my eyes were filmy. I grabbed the device and held it close to my face. “It’s Annaleigh,” I said, as I swiped to accept the call.
At this point, I’m thinking it’s probably about midnight. I’m a little put off that she woke me up, but I’m not panicked or anything because she often calls late, after her studying, to tell us about her day and say goodnight.
“Oh my…it’s 2:30AM!” Big D exclaims. 2:30? AM? Oh no…
“Hefflelow?” I mumble, realizing my mouth isn’t really working yet.
“Mom? I’m sorry I woke you up, but I have a problem…”
Her voice sounds steady. I don’t hear background noises that sound like a Nashville emergency room. No sirens. No heavy breathing of a kidnapper. My pulse slows down a bit. “It’s okay,” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“Mom, I think an ant is in my ear.”
I pull the phone away and look at the screen again. Annaleigh. Not Abraham Lincoln. Not Ant Man. I’m not still in my bowling alley dream that morphed into a Civil War dream that morphed into my college daughter telling me she’s the next Avenger. I said the only thing I could think of saying: “Wha…?”
“An ant, Mom. I think an ant crawled into my ear. I can kinda feel it crawling around.”
I had a dilemma. If I panicked, it would scare her. If I laughed, it might hurt her feelings. If I didn’t say something, I was going to fall asleep. “Okay,” I said. Brilliant.
“Mom, I don’t know what to do. How do I get it out?”
I had no idea. I’m an English major, for Pete’s sake. As far as I know, I’ve never had to remove an insect from inside of my body. I glanced over at Big D, who may have dozed back off. He might be more help. He once had a peanut stuck up his nose. Granted, he was in third grade, but he still might be more help than I was at the moment. I wondered what Abraham Lincoln would tell someone who had an ant in their ear…
“I already tried to wake up my roommate, but I couldn’t. Mom, what should I do?”
In all honesty, I wanted to say to give the roommate another try. Shake her really hard. Force her to get out of bed and get the darn ant out of your ear. I mean what are roommates for, if not for early morning ant extraction?! But I didn’t say that. I think I said, “Um.”
“I already tried Q-tips.”
Drats! I had just thought of that. A fuzzy idea involving hot water and a straw was starting to surface… “Well, I….maybe…”
“Mom, I can feel it walking around…like inside my head.”
I swear at this point that I heard “The Twilight Zone” music. Actually, this was beginning to look up a bit. Surely, I won’t have to actually leave my bed, drive forty minutes to her college, and take her to the emergency room. This is how super heroes are born. Let the ant crawl into her brain, and then my daughter will have super ant powers, which include…. Hmmm…what do they include? Foraging? Hill-making? Sugar-eating? Whatever…I was already planning a logo. It would be crimson and gold with a swirly black “A.” We would call her, “Ant-a-leigh.”
“Mom, what should I do?”
This was it. My moment of truth. I could win Mother-of-the-Year. Annaleigh would write a song about me. Name her first child after me. Or, at the very least, post on social media how I had saved her life. I just had to think…on about 23.2% brain power, mind you…how to get the ant out of her ear.
I said, “I don’t know.”
“Mom, I don’t know either! I can feel it! It’s walking around, Mom. I think it’s going deeper! What will happen if I can’t get it out?! Mom, I…oh. Wait a minute…. I…uh…I got it, Mom. It’s out.”
It was out. The ant was out of her ear.
My college sophomore daughter had called me at 2:30AM on a Wednesday morning because an ant had crawled into her ear. It was walking around, and she was starting to panic. And I had said a total of eight and half words, none of which were helpful to her in the slightest.
“Okay. Good.” I was a regular wordsmith.
“I’m sorry I woke you up. Goodnight.”
Oh, I am too, Abraham Lincoln….Ant-a-leigh…or whoever you are. I am too.
“It’s okay. ‘Night. Love you,” I said instead.
Big D rolled over. “What did she want?”
“She had an ant in her ear. But it’s out now. She used a Q-tip,” I said.
“An ant? She had an ant in her ear? Wow…okay.” I think he was already drifting off again.
And the moral of this story, folks? Because, you know, fables always have morals… Never go bowling with Abraham Lincoln and your roommate after midnight with a Q-tip in your pocket, of course. Sheesh.