Un-squeamish

I was happily mowing the lawn this afternoon when I saw my darlin' daughter, dressed in an all-pink princess ballerina tutu, a feminine pink bow in her stick-straight pig-tails run up to me, smiling from ear to ear.  Oh, bless the X-chromosome!  Something frilly and sweet in our testosterone laden household.   Yeah for girls!! 

 Reagan had something in her hand that she obviously wanted to show me, so I stopped the lawn mower to check it out.

It was a bird.

Reagan: "Mom!  Look!  A birdy!"

At first, I thought it was a toy bird, but upon closer inspection I could see that it wasn't. 

Reagan: "It's DEAD, Mom!"  And then she handed it to me.

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW GROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!

After internally retching for a few seconds, I grabbed her and screechingly explained how we don't pick up dead things, as they are disgusting, and germ-filled, and.... EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.  BLECH.  ICK ICK ICK.

Then I decontaminated her with Germ-X and every anti-bacterial soap I could find.

And she just looked at me like I was insane.  Because it's "just a dead bird, Mom."  Big whoop.

UGH.  GROSS.  EWWW.  Ick.  Disgusting.

Now I have to go outside and figure out how I'm going to get the dead bird off the lawn mower so I can finish mowing.  I certainly am not touching that thing.