I spend a lot of time watching my bugs lately -- the praying mantis nymphs. 

Over the past week or so, I released more into the yard and some have died off from what I think is just bad luck at birth. 

There was one that finally shriveled yesterday, for instance, that appeared misshapen, like a headless worm with legs. The five that remain in the terrarium are about an inch and a half long now and brown, some 21 days after they first oozed from the egg sac as tiny, almost translucent nymphs.

I bought wingless fruit flies online after a fruitless search of three area pet stores. They arrived on the doorstep in four plastic vials. I shook a few into the terrarium each day but after a week or so, they turned to into an especially gruesome whitish blueish type of worm. What the heck is that about? Can anyone enlighten me?

Without the tiny flies, I foraged the garden for food and found a most excellent food source on the leaves of my butterfly bush. A tiny red bug with black wings that I can easily shake into a glass jar, then dump into the terrarium. The nymphs devour them. I shook some in there this morning, though, and the nymphs barely moved toward them. A sign, I think, that I overfed them the day before. 

I still plan to release the bulk of the nymphs into the yard so that we're left with just one which we'll grow until it develops its wings. At this point, I think it's safe to say they'll all survive so I should probably just go ahead and select the one we'll keep. But I do enjoy watching them all together and despite all of your dire warnings, they still haven't started cannibalizing one another. 

In other news, I started writing a weekly home and garden column for Del Ray Patch. I wrote about nesting birds and the neighborhood home and garden tour. Go ahead and read them if you like. I'm enjoying the regular freelance work even more than I thought I would. 

I'm also having a hair crisis which I shall resolve this afternoon when I lop it all off again. Carry on. 

Several weeks ago, Josephine and Desmond came home from school talking about the caterpillars they planned to watch grow into butterflies. They drew in an observational journal and lectured me on chrysallis and rejoiced when the painted ladies broke free and spread their wings. 

Their teacher planned a Butterfly Release Party and for weeks at quiet time, Josephine sat behind her closed door and practiced a song in a low whisper: "Kindergarten here we come, here we come." She also practiced "Chim Chimney" from Mary Poppins and "Do-Re-Mi" from "The Sound of Music," both of which she performed at the Broadway-themed Spring Concert on Wednesday. But what about the kindergarten song? 

The kids gathered today in a half-circle in front of us - parents and siblings - and recited "The Caterpillar" by poet Christina Rosetti, then acted out the life cycle of a butterfly before they moved on to the last item of the program: End of School Poem and Song. 

I turned the camera to video mode and hit record. 

Here's what they said and sang: 

"We started out little just like the egg and we ate and we grew and we stretched our legs and we learned a lot as we went along: how to count, how to play, how to sing a song, how to write our letters, how to kick a ball, how to be very quiet in the hall.

So here we are and they'll be no crying, cause we got our wings and we're ready for flying up to...

Kindergarten here we come, here we come.

Kindergarten here we come, here we coooome.

So long preschool, it's been fun.

Kindergarten here we come, HERE WE COME!"

And I cried because I'm so proud of them, so awed by their dramatic growth this past year. I had a conversation with Desmond last weekend about the Civil War and something he read in an impossibly long, complicated book one afternoon by himself. And I watched him write a letter to his teacher tonight when he could barely write his name at the start of the school year. Josephine stood outside the door to the classroom today as families arrived and handed out "Butterfly Party" programs with art designed by her. 

They have grown from eggs. They ate and grew and learned so much it blows my mind. Of course, they have wings. Of course, they're ready to fly. Watch out kindergarten, here they come! 

And now I'm crying again.

Esme celebrated her First Holy Communion with both her godparents in attendance. She wore the veil I wore 33 years ago when I made my first communion at St. Edwards the Confessor Catholic Church. And, for the first time since she received it, she wore the necklace her Aunt Dawn gave her at her baptism.

See that smile, the one with the fresh tooth missing? It didn't leave her face the entire day.

I know this because I'm desperate to feed a dozen hungry praying mantis nymphs. What I don't know is why I have a dozen hungry praying mantis nymphs because the idea was to save only a handful from the sea of nymphs that spilled from the egg sac last week. But as I started to separate them the other day, I found I couldn't part with them all. 

This past week, a Mama robin built a nest on our porch on the top of a corner column in the small space beneath the ceiling. Other birds, not robins, have built nests in the same spot in years past but the nests have always come down in strong winds or storms. Based on experience, I should have used a broom to pull this nest down as soon as she started. But I didn't. And for the past few days, the Mama has been roosting with little respite. She stays seated even when I go to the porch. 

Every night, I lay in the same spot on the couch and watch shitty TV to numb the day's chaos. I can see the robin from my spot. Today, I stood on the arms of the rocking chair and cleaned the window so I'd have a better view. 

It strikes me that the fawning over the praying mantis nymphs and going to ridiculous lengths to feed them (do you know how hard it is to catch tiny, transparent bugs in flight?) is related to my affection for the robin. 

It's most definitely not baby lust. I wrote a few months ago that I am settled with our family. I do find it staggering how quickly the children grow and there are moments when I'm nostalgic for them as babies (like when I found Esme's newborn hat buried in a drawer), but I love where we are now and, as I said, I'm excited about where we're going. 

I settled on another idea: perhaps it's that I love growing things. The mantids, the robin eggs, my flowers, our garden. I wondered, has it always been this way? I don't think so. It was never so essential as it is now. It's curious, don't you think?

In other news, Josephine told me she wants to name her praying mantis Coraleen. It strikes me that would make a great name for our robin. 

Imagine, if you will, you're my across-the-street neighbor, standing on your front porch as your three kids play and suddenly there's a scream from my house so loud, so sustained you hear it like a train whistle despite closed doors and windows. 

"Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!"

Over and over and over. 

You'd wonder what became of me and the kids, right? I'm certain you'd never guess. 

Lately, the day to day with the children has bordered on unbearable. Tobias hit an intense phase marked by repeated tantrums and a dour outlook, classic 3 and a half, as one friend described it. Josephine upped her stubborn quotient and challenges every rule, disputes most requests and harumphs her displeasure.

Then Esme came down with strep. 

So, we were out for fresh air yesterday to clear our heads, stretch our legs and run some of the bad mood off but the bad moods and misbehavior chased us home. I was so ticked off when we finally burst through the front door that I made the kids a glass of water each and walked straight to the basement to fold clothes (but mostly to get away from them). 

I wasn't there long when Esme shouted from the top of the steps: "The praying mantis! The praying mantis."

Three weeks ago, when I bought the package of ladybugs to release in the yard, I also bought a praying mantis egg case filled with what the online retailer told me was 200-300 praying mantis eggs. We put it in a borrowed terrarium and placed it on the dining room table - voila, an insect centerpiece - then, we waited. 

Different web sites told me the eggs needed a few continuous weeks of warm weather to hatch, but we didn't know what to expect. I moved the terrarium back and forth between the table and buffet at mealtime so many times that I rather forgot to wonder about when the eggs might hatch.

Until they did. 

I ran upstairs to see why Esme was shouting, and then promptly started shouting myself. Like a ninny, it must be said. The praying mantis nymphs were oozing from the egg case in such a ghastly mass of translucent foam that I couldn't control myself. It was like watching transparent meat with black eyeballs spill from a meat grinder. 

It was fascinating, sure, but for several minutes I couldn't get past how gruesome it looked. And I couldn't stop screaming (while simultaneously scolding myself internally). It was like the time a mouse ran through our front room and I stood on the chair and hyperventilated. Total nonsense, yet totally incapable of slapping myself into silence. 

Of course, I did eventually gain my composure and I took the terrarium to the front porch with the kids following closely and put it on the picnic table for us all to marvel. 

The nymphs quickly unfurled themselves, found their footing and flitted about the terrarium as more oozed from the case and joined them. My across-the-street neighbor and her children joined us too. (She likened my screaming to a woman who drinks daintily from a tea cup. Indeed.) 

Within 30 minutes, the egg case was empty and the nymphs ready to start their life cycle. I was warned by many, many friends to watch out, praying mantis are ruthless predators and will set upon one another quickly. So, we took the terrarium to the back yard and let some of them crawl into the garden. 

The plan was always to cull the mantids down to a handful of hardy ones so that we can eventually select one strong mantid to grow to adulthood. The others would be released to the garden where they can fend for themselves and hopefully feast on bad pests that we could otherwise do without. 

But the nymphs seemed content to hang out in the terrarium, so I brought it in for the night with upwards of 50 still in there. I turned out the light at midnight and wondered what I'd find in the morning. 

Well, I found them all mostly as they'd been the night before, only noticeably bigger and darker. As the morning wore on, they seemed to grow more feisty too (but, as of dusk, they still haven't started to devour each other). I had 100 things to do this morning but after I finished the most pressing, I sat with my nose to the terrarium and watched, spellbound. 

A sampling of my morning tweets: 

I can already tell this is going to be a project that consumes me. So, prepare for praying mantis stories galore. I promise I won't scream. 

A few weeks ago, I got an email that made me wish it was otherwise. Made me long for an audience so big, so mighty that when I roared, people listened or when I asked Wil Wheaton to collate paper, he did.

The message came from a former colleague from my early newspapering days in North Carolina. Susan knew that I'd long since moved north, but she sent the letter to me and others with ties to North Carolina in hopes that we'd help her spread the word against a constitutional amendment on the state ballot May 8. 

It's called Amendment 1 and it reads, in full: 

"Constitutional amendment to provide that marriage between one man and one woman is the only domestic legal union that shall be valid or recognized in this state."

As opponents note, the amendment is so broadly worded it won't just affect gay couples; it could also impact civil unions and domestic partnerships like the one Susan's 76-year-old mother and her partner, Pete, have shared for 20 years. 

Of course, Susan wasn't writing me just to help couples like her mother and Pete. She wanted me to help her and Sera, her partner of four years. 

"It might be helpful to know that nine years ago, I finally accepted that I am gay," she wrote. "I sincerely hope that you'll seriously think about how this Amendment will harm my family as well as tens of thousands of others in our state."

I finished the letter and felt not just enraged - by an amendment that codifies discrimination and prejudice and seeks to deny my friends the rights that I enjoy - but I also felt impotent. All of my friends that live in North Carolina are dedicated voters sure to vote against this amendment. Most of them likely have either given money to efforts to fight the amendment or are actively working to defeat it themselves. I can't really help, I thought. 

It was one of the only times I can recall wishing for a bigger platform. 

Almost immediately, I decided to write about it anyway because to not do so would be an affront to my friends in North Carolina and elsewhere who have to fight this type of discrimination day in, day out. 

I mean, can you imagine having to write a letter to a former colleague to ask for help to defend your personal relationship? It's preposterous and yet, Susan had to. She has to fight to protect her right to make financial and medical decisions for her partner, if God forbid, Sera was ever incapacitated. She has to fight for their rights as a couple to even visit one another in the hospital. 

"... at the end of the day, this is about my ability to hold Sera's hand as she draws her last breath," she wrote. "It's about Sera's ability to claim my remains after my death."

I emailed another friend back in North Carolina, a guy immersed in politics who works for the state, to ask how the hell this amendment even made it to the ballot. For perspective, when I covered the statehouse from 2000-2004, Democrats held the House and Senate in a vise grip, and Republicans were so far out of the power loop they were square. 

That changed in 2010, when Republicans seized control of both chambers for the first time in more than 100 years. 

"It came to pass because the R's have been pushing (it) for years and they finally took over and they have been pushing all this crazy social stuff," he said. It should be noted, however, that it didn't pass without support from Democrats too.

I went back and read a number of news stories to find out exactly why the Republicans lobbied for the amendment and it seems to boil down to this: they want the gay marriage ban codified in the constitution because they fear the possibility that even though state law already defines marriage as the legal union between a man and a woman, some judge somewhere could overturn that. 

They also think gay marriage portends the collapse of all they hold sacred and good. To wit, here's what one Republican county commissioner said when asked why the state was focusing on social issues during tough economic times: 

"One thing comes to mind. If the moral and social issues of our country are not addressed, we don't have to worry about the economic issues. They will not matter at that point in time."

The notion that gay couples threaten the institution of marriage or the fabric of our society seems ludicrous to me, not to mention bigoted. Maybe it's just indicative of my own ho-hum life, but my gay friends are fairly ordinary. No offense guys. They share photos of their vegetable gardens on Facebook, adore baseball parks like national treasures and take their children on annual vacations to Disney World. It's hard to take anyone seriously who thinks such couples undermine their own union or imperil mine. 

Susan wrote a separate, but similar letter to someone else too -- a former county commissioner turned state senator whom she once covered as a beat reporter, a man she admired and respected. I've read the letter and it is vulnerable and deeply moving. In it, she tells her former source, a man in a position to vote on the amendment, that she has finally found a happiness she thought she'd never know now that she has embraced her true self. 

"...for so long, I thought -- even feared -- that I would end up dying alone," she said. "I no longer have those worries, BUT I do fear the implications of writing discrimination into our state's founding document. Such a move not only devalues the life that my partner and I have worked hard to build together, it sends the message far and wide across this state that as an individual, I do not deserve the same respect that all other North Carolinians deserve."

He told her no can do and voted to put the amendment on the ballot.

Which is where you come in. Do you live in North Carolina or know someone who does? Did you vote early? Are you going to the polls May 8? Will you take someone who needs help getting there? Can you help Susan and Sera, Susan's mom and Pete and others like them? 

Please help defeat this amendment. 

(Susan and Sera)

One more thing, do yourself a favor and take a few minutes to read the letter Susan sent me. I linked to it above but I'll link to it again -- here. It speaks to the many consequences of this ballot initiative. 

I give myself a hard time about lots of things everyday. A constant battery of that's not right, you coulda done better, stop being such an asshole, what an idiot, and so on and so forth. But looky here: I grew a rose, my Grandma Josephine's rose, from a cutting and it bloomed. Huzzah!

A few weeks ago, when I first heard the space shuttle Discovery would be flying over DC, this was one of the images I had in mind. I imagined it soaring over iconic monuments  - an icon itself - and immediately knew I wanted to be a part of the event. 

The only question in my mind was whether to keep the children from school and bring them too. As I told Kent one night last week, the flyover likely would be more important to us since we grew up with the Space Shuttle Program. I remember precisely where I was standing in the hall at high school when I learned the Challenger exploded, and I was glued to the TV the morning Columbia broke up on re-entry. 

But the kids? They never really knew the thrill of the program. The launches and landings became so commonplace that, sadly, even we adults never paid enough attention. 

I remember feeling such sadness last year when I watched NASA's live feed of the last launch of space shuttle Atlantis. Desmond had recently become enamored with all things space-related -- the result of Buzz Lightyear and a weekend trip near Chincoteague that took us past the Wallops Flight Facility.

What do you say to your kids when they tell you they want to grow up to be astronauts? When we no longer have a program to take them?

Leaving the kids at home certainly would have made the morning easier. I could hop on my bike and ride to the hill at the Netherlands Carillon, I thought. Or stake out a quiet spot along the river near Memorial Bridge. But friends convinced me it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for the kids. 

"Take them," one wrote to me on Facebook. "Before any of them went into space, I remember seeing the first shuttle riding piggy back on a jumbo jet fly over... I will never forget it... neither will they."

And so over the weekend, we watched videos of different space shuttle launches, a five-part series on the Columbia disaster and fantastic footage from a camera positioned on the booster rockets that shows them plummet into the ocean. 

Last night, I got out Desmond's Halloween costume - his astronaut spacesuit, cap and helmet - and packed a giant bag with food and toys including a stomp rocket and Buzz Lightyear Kite. 

When I saw the news first thing this morning that the shuttle left Florida at 7 a.m., I hurried up the tribe and headed into the city. We set up our blanket between the Lincoln and Washington monuments shortly before 9 a.m. when only a handful of photographers and others were there. Desmond had suited up before breakfast and, god bless him, marched through the city with his spacesuit and helmet on. 

I think he felt self-conscious once there and started to take off his suit, but when he realized how interested people were in his helmet and gear, he posed for photos and even chatted with a NASA videographer. He's our most introverted, the most uncomfortable in unfamiliar situations. So, to see him as the center of attention -- see him throw his shoulders back and own it - well, they could have told me the Discovery had been diverted for bad weather and still the morning would have been worth it. 

Of course, that's not what happened at all. Discovery not only flew over, it flew over multiple times during a 45-minute period. It was like going to an all you can eat ice cream bar. It felt so indulgent to see it once, but four times!? Past the Lincoln, down the river, over the Holocaust Museum, past the Washington Monument and the Capitol? My God! 

It was so thrilling and yet terribly sad too. Like watching a prize fighter pushed in a wheelchair to a podium - where he struggles to stand - to accept a lifetime achievement award.

Because they're all still so young, it's likely the children could forget the day. But maybe not, hopefully not. 

I know I won't.  

Need a sure-fire way to make your child smile for a photo? Release 1,500 ladybugs into the back yard and ask her to put one on her face. 

Or his shirt. Same difference. 

"It tickles, Mama," they all shouted. Just watch that the ladybugs don't crawl into their eyes. Or up their nose.

I'm saving the details of the ladybug release for a new weekly column I'll be writing for Del Ray Patch, the local online news site that I've freelanced for over the past 18 months. Starting next month, I have a regular, as yet unnamed Home & Garden feature (the current writer is moving south). It's a small job, but it's enough to help us with the pinch of feeding four kids with outrageous appetites. 

Any housing trends you think are interesting? Any garden projects you want to know about? You should tell me because while I have about a month's worth of column ideas lined up, I'm sure I'll be desperate for more soon enough.

It's something I hear often, from older parents, an admonition I never take lightly because it's something I already know: this time together, when they're tiny and funny, curious and needy, is finite. A nostalgic sap like me, of course I know it's slipping quickly. 

"It gets harder," he said. I know this too. I've feared my children's teen-age years since before they were born, when they were still a concept in my newly-married head. 

The man, a father of two boys, buried his youngest three years ago, a casualty of drugs and alcohol. "We did the same thing with both boys," he said. One succeeded; the other got trapped in the cycle of addiction at 14. You could almost see him shaking his head, all these years later, in a where-did-it-go-wrong kind of way.

The man told me that his wife was a PTA president and helped start a group at the high school to combat drugs, but even still, they had no idea their own son was using. 

It's always been a mystery to me, how things go so wrong. I've never accepted the folks who blame parents for the children who get mixed up in bad stuff. A dear friend in high school came from a big family. Three kids did really well for themselves. The other two had a rough, tough time that included stints in jail, rehab and their own prisons of addiction. I always thought his parents were amazing, always felt terrible for what they suffered. Perhaps there was more going on than I ever knew, still, I've always known it could happen to me too as a parent. Knock wood, hope for luck. 

The son died at 24. He had kicked drugs, his father told me, but quickly got caught by alcohol. He got drunk one day, borrowed his mother's car and crashed it into a tree. 

He told me it's always there -- the loss -- but sometimes he has flashes of his son that are overwhelming. He sees him as he was, laying in the hospital in a coma. His name was Aaron, he said, toward the end of our conversation. 

The man was doing business at the salon. His phone rang several times as we talked and he had to take the calls. Eventually, he walked back into the store and wished me a good day. 

I sat on the porch this whole time while Desmond got his hair cut and the other three played in the grass or jumped from the steps. Esme had wandered over and heard most of the man's story. When he went inside, I turned to her there on the porch next to a busy commercial street and we had our first conversation about the dangers of drugs and alcohol.