THE LAST STRAW: The annual invasion of our house by ants is now a surer sign of spring than daffodils. Out of gratitude, therefore, I prefer non-violent ant-control methods to the mass insecticide techniques helpful readers have passed on in previous years. But I'm implementing a get-tough policy at the moment, ever since the ants traumatised my two-year-old son. It was my own fault, of course, writes Frank McNally.
Patrick had barely noticed them until I broached the subject one day while trying to stop him rolling around the floor. I couldn't pick him up at the time, because this would have involved getting off the couch. So with the low cunning that parents develop, I tried something else. "If you don't get off the floor," I said, "the ants will eat you".
There were two ants on the floor at the time. Maybe three. They would have made an all-you-can-eat buffet of a grain of sugar and still have enough for doggy bags. But Patrick considered my warning and stood up. Then his lower lip started to rise.
When a two-year-old gets upset, all the emotion rushes into the lower lip area, which climbs like the mercury in a barometer. Patrick's lip went off the scale completely. And then he bawled.
Fearing I had scarred him for life - an opinion helpfully offered by his mother - I sat him on my knee and reassured him ants were harmless. It was common for them to move indoors in search of warmth and food, I explained, but their diet did not include human beings, even small ones. Gradually, he was persuaded. "Ants not eating me," he said repeatedly, shaking his head, but in no rush to get down again.
I was chastened, but I couldn't have known he would react like that. After all, many of his favourite bedtime stories feature the consumption of leading characters - grannies and little pigs being particularly high-risk groups. Indeed, his current favourite game is hiding in the Tweenie tent with his sister while, outside, the big bad wolf (me) huffs and puffs and blows the house down.
Another fun game is in the supermarket, where the fish counter sometimes has a shark's head and tail protruding from the ice. As we sneak past, I hum the theme from Jaws, and the kids love it. They've never seen Jaws, obviously, so they have no idea what I'm doing. But they love it anyway.
SINCE my faux pas, however, Patrick remains wary of ants. So I've taken to doing a preliminary sweep of the living-room every morning for any signs of formic life. These are thankfully scarce so far, but I'm bracing myself for an upsurge around Easter, which in my experience is the start of the ant tourism season proper.
Parents shouldn't be overprotective, of course, and it's no bad thing that my once-fearless son is realising the world is dangerous. There was a period last year when he had so many bumps on his head I thought about making him wear a helmet around the house. We couldn't bring him into a department store at the time, or inevitably, sooner or later, he'd collide with a shelf.
But now he seems to have discovered the law of gravity, at least. It was a poignant moment recently when I realised he was no longer completely comfortable being carried on my shoulders. Not that he's had bad experiences up there (except once or twice when I forgot about a low doorway). But his grip has tightened lately, and he's clearly going the way of his sister, who has given up this form of transport altogether: the last time we tried it I had to prise her fingers off my throat every time I needed to breathe.
Last year, Patrick was so relaxed on my shoulders that, if I needed to let go for a moment, he would just lean forward and hold my ears. He could even fall asleep like that, resting his cheek on my head, an effect which charmed women so much I was sorry I hadn't thought of it when I was single.
We were on a family rail holiday in France, for example, and one day found ourselves in Geneva (it's an easy mistake). I was at a counter in the station, with the baby snoring overhead, when the ticket-woman noticed him, and her Swiss efficiency melted like cheese. "Ee's so beautiful," she said, sighing in French, and I blushed with pride before the price of the tickets drained some of the colour back out of my face.
Patrick is not so trusting any more, sadly. So when he sits on my shoulders now, I have to reassure him. Every so often, I'll ask if he's OK up there and he'll murmur "yeh". Then he'll shake his head and add: "Ants not eating me."