I *AM* a Brave Little Toaster!!

Bravery is one of those words that are hard to define.  I think most of us would agree that certain people are brave:  Soldiers, firemen, police officers, Junior High teachers … bravery is a commonly accepted description of certain people or situations.

For other people, the term “bravery” is more fluid.  I have a relative who has never liked driving.  As she has gotten older, her fear of driving has escalated to the point where a trip to WalMart, just a few miles down the road, is anxiety-producing.  She’d rather not go rather than have to drive.  She goes shopping on the weekends or the evenings when her husband can drive her.  So for her, driving on the freeway would be a definition of bravery.  We all have our own definition of bravery that we apply to society in general as well as to ourselves.

When my children were little, they loved a movie called “The Brave Little Toaster”.  We still use that phrase in this house, when describing something that we’ve done that is brave *to us* even though the rest of the world may not agree.  I don’t think that anyone, using any yardstick, would describe me as brave, but certain things bring out an almost irrational fear in me.  I don’t like bugs.  I know most people don’t, but I REALLY REALLY don’t like bugs.  We have a Guard Gecko we’ve named Spike who hangs out by our front door.  One day, Spike got a case of the stupids and came inside my house.  I knew Spike was harmless and I didn’t want to hurt him, so I made my son catch Spike and take him outside.  I, of course, being the Brave Little Toaster I am, stood in the other room, hand to my mouth, and made terrified gasping noises.  I’m sure that my son appreciated my help.  When insects are outside, and I’m inside, we have an uneasy peace, but if one of them dares to enter my home, they will find themselves drowning in a pool of Raid.  Then I toss a paper towel over the lifeless body and I wait for my poor, long-suffering husband to come home.  I will call or text him and say, “I was a Brave Little Toaster.  It’s underneath the curio cabinet.”  He knows what that means.

Just recently, I came home to find that a little, tiny field mouse (which has become a “huge as a cat” wharf rat as I retell this story) had chewed thru the window screen and was trapped between the window screen and the pane of glass.  He was outside, of course, but I could SEE him from inside the house.  He wasn’t smart enough to exit from the same hole thru which he had entered, so there he sat, trapped.  Again, I channeled my inner Brave Little Toaster and called my poor, long-suffering husband (who was at work, 40 miles away in downtown Houston) and I think I screamed, “A mouse!  It’s a mouse!” and then I burst into hysterical tears.  He had to come home and take the screen off the window before Mickey could scurry away.  I stood in the other room, hand to my mouth, and made terrified gasping noises.

I have come to realize, however, that even scarier than bugs and unwelcome critters in my house is dead things.  We had a bird once fly into our window.  He hit the glass so hard the window rattled, and then he slid, lifeless, down the glass and laid like a rock on the ground.  I almost wet myself.  It was ghastly.  I knew I needed to dispose of the body, but the thought of actually DOING that almost made me have a panic attack.  I closed the blinds, cried, and waited for my poor, long-suffering husband to come home.  Much to my delight, apparently Bird was only dazed because when my poor, long-suffering husband came home, Bird was sitting up.  As he walked over to it, Bird shook his feathers and flew off.  However, over the course of the past 27+ years of marriage, poor, long-suffering husband has had more than his share of backyard surprises to deal with.  The paper-towel-covered-Raid-soaked bug is bad enough, but when Shadow catches one of God’s Woodland Critters, that’s not nice.  We also had a raccoon apparently just die on our back porch.  No idea why, but I opened the door and there he was.  Ugh. 

The absolutely most terrifying critter-related incident happened about 15 years ago.  At that time, we still had Kitty, who was the BEST CAT IN THE WORLD.  I loved that cat, and when, after 17 years, she went to Rainbow Bridge, I grieved more than I thought possible.  Kitty was my heart and soul and I still cry a little when I think of her (I’m a bit teary now, just typing this.  I really loved that cat.)  Anyway, Kitty, in her sole-moment as Great Hunter, decided to catch and present to me a gift.  I walked into the living room early one morning and there, in the center of the floor, was a dead mouse.  It had two puncture marks in the neck and it was quite, quite dead.  Kitty was sitting next to it, looking quite proud of herself.  My poor, long-suffering husband had already left for work and I knew the kids (who were toddler aged) would be awake soon.  I couldn’t let them see this, and I couldn’t throw a towel over him and wait for my poor, long-suffering husband to get home, so (oh, I’m almost having a panic attack just remembering this) I disposed of him.  *shudder* Truly, I earned my Brave Little Toaster Badge that day.

Yesterday, I was up at church.  In the Children’s Wing, there is a huge fish tank.  It’s gorgeous and is quite popular with the kids, who often run over to look at the fish.  As I was walking through the Children’s Wing, I noticed something laying on the floor right in front of the tank.  As I got closer, I realized it was fish-shaped.  I guess one of them jumped out of the tank, because he was laying on the floor right in front of the tank.  Flashing back to the horror of the Mouse Gift from 15 years ago, and knowing I had to get Mousie out of the house before my kids woke up, I realized I had to get this fish off the floor before the kids showed up.  I could feel myself start to panic.  This wasn’t a ‘throw a paper towel over it and call my husband’ type thing.  I looked around, praying that someone … ANYONE … would come down the hallway, but no one was there.  It was just me, and the dead fish.  I knew I had to pick him up, I did not want one of our children to see that, but it was a DEAD THING.  And dead things totally freak me out.  I actually cried a little … I was terrified.  I got a paper towel and snuck up on the poor dead fishie.  I was going to scoop him up and throw him away and try not to hyperventilate and pass out first.  As I bent down to pick him up, I realized it was a fish-shaped leaf.  It was a LEAF!  Not a dead fish!  A leaf!  Oh, happy dance, oh, joy! 

When I got home, I told my poor, long-suffering husband the story.  I knew he would appreciate the Brave Little Toaster aspect of it.  And he agreed with me that, even tho it wasn’t actually a fish, and I didn’t actually have to dispose of a dead thing, I still get Brave Little Toaster points for the fact that I was GOING to do it.  That counts.   

We all have differing definitions of bravery.  And what may be a huge Brave Little Toaster moment in our lives might not even be a blip in someone else's life.  I'm sure that most people would have scooped up the dead fish (and we're still calling it a fish because that's better than "Sandra almost peed her pants upon seeing a leaf") and not given it a second thought, but to me, it was a HUGE thing.  So I'm taking credit for being a Brave Little Toaster and I hope I remember to give myself credit for those Brave Little Toaster moments and I don't discount them just because it was a leaf.