Worm

When most people think of school, they think of homework. But that word homework means different things for my daughter's kindergarten than it does for many of us.

It's hard to imagine that my daughter's homework is to raise a darkling beetle.

Last week, I borrowed a book How Not to Be Eaten written by an entomologist, but haven't had time to read. When I went home tonight, my daughter could not wait to tell me the great news, "Dad, come and have a gander. A mealworm. A worm that won't eat you and me." Jasmine was holding a box in which I found a wormlike larva. That's a baby creature that doesn't look like its parents at all. Her teacher isn't teaching her complete metamorphosis, of course, but the theme of her class is "Change" this month. Yup, the reason of asking my kid to raise a darkling beetle from the larva rings clear as a bell.

Wait. I got puzzled when I thought more about it. The teacher gave Jasmine the box to bring home this morning. And my maid picked up Jasmine after school. Oh no, my maid has never really come to terms with her visceral distaste for any crawling creature. The mere thought of a caterpillar could have provoked a squirt of stomach acid into the back of her mouth. How could my maid bring that box of ugly worm home? That's on par with giving her a heart attack. I could hear her heart thumping around her chest like a tennis shoe in the washing machine.

If I had to summarize the second part of this mealworm's story in a sentence, I could say that it's a story of observing how Jasmine changes to a mature girl. I was expecting a tale of my panicky maid covering her eyes, but all my daughter said was, "I know; it's too scary for Wati, and I told her the worm won't eat her. I didn't ask her to hold the box. I bring the box home all by myself."