No choice but to go batty


You just never know when you’ll have a brush with greatness, or in my case, great fear.
As near as I remember, I was cleaning a high shelf in the bathroom when there was a flash of movement, a flutter, and my momentary thought “oh, why is there a big leaf up here?” before the “leaf” became coherent enough to make a beeline (bat line?) for my hair.
Any woman reading this knows of what I speak.
We all know that despite the whole “bats are friends, bats eat bugs” propaganda, the bats really have only one aim: to land in our hair and kill us outright (we’ll die of fright).
Action. Fortunately, I displayed my amazing bat repellent prowess and took tried-and-true bat action.
I screamed and ran like a bat outta, well … heck.
I didn’t stop running (or screaming) until I reached the living room clear across the house. I was a hair away from leaving a cartoon-like Kymberly-shaped hole in the wall.
Then I did the only thing a smart, savvy, feminist-type gal like myself could do in a crisis: I called a big strong man to save me.
My husband, ever supportive, was so there for me in my hour of need.
By this I mean, he was there to laugh uproariously and share my plight with all coworkers within earshot.
Mr. Wonderful could only muster the feeblest of support as I was frantically stuffing towels, blankets, and the sofa into all cracks around the bathroom door in an attempt to keep what I was now convinced was the biggest bat ever at bay.
Fear. He opined that the bat was probably more afraid of me than I was of him.
Why do people think comments like that are helpful?
Sure, the bat might be lying on my bathroom floor scared stiff that the screaming lady was going to come get tangled in his hair and infect him with a deadly disease, but somehow I doubt it.
Then I did the second thing a smart, savvy, feminist-type gal like myself could do in a crisis: I fled my home and went shopping for the afternoon.
I mean, when averaged out, it might cost roughly $3 for every minute spent in a mall, but on the upside, last time I checked they had exactly no bats in their bathrooms.
Forget it. I returned home four hours later, after my husband (aka Mr. Big Hero) had long arrived home, only to be greeted with “Bat? Oh the bat! I completely forgot about the bat!”
Of all the things that could make me question the paths I have chosen in life, I think marrying a man who could forget he had a bat in his bathroom ranks right up there.
Forget the bat? You can forget my birthday, our anniversary, and the names of both our children but a bat in my bathroom is something I expect you to bump right to the very tippy top of your to-do list.
Properly reminded, Mr. Wonderful made short work of dispatching our little bat friend back into the great outdoors.
Cradling the creature in his (gloved) hands, he felt it necessary to show us that the bat appeared injured. Poor dear.
I could only imagine that the bat’s injuries, if any, stemmed entirely from the strong wind I had created as I had beat feet out of the bathroom.
He probably got clipped in a downdraft.
Now, I had gone from being the righteous and wholly innocent bystander, to being the mean lady who hurt the bat.
All eyes – including my children’s – nearly welled with tears at the plight of one of God’s creatures.
No one loves a potentially rabid, vicious creature like I do, I assure you. Really, I’m all bat heart, but can we focus people? I’m the victim here!
See? Had I married one of those nice drunken accounting majors I used to run around with, this would never have happened.
They would have likely joined me on top of a table somewhere while we screamed like ninnies, then called a nice exterminator type to dispatch the bat.
Instead, I fall in love with Marlon Perkins and am treated to my own little Wild Kingdom right there in the house.
To be fair, he did remove the bat from the bathroom, and we have every reason to believe it went on to future happiness in the shrubbery outside.
Later that evening, as I finally unclenched and enjoyed bat-free bliss, Mr. Wonderful turned to me and mused, idly, “So, how do you think it got in here?”
Honestly, he’s going to drive me batty.
(Kymberly Foster Seabolt may be too scared – and scarred – to clean from now on. She welcomes comments c/o; P.O. Box 38, Salem, Ohio 44460; or


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Warm, witty and just a wee bit warped, Kymberly Foster Seabolt is a native of Kent, Ohio, who survived childhood exposure to disco and grew up to marry and move to the country. Her column weaves her special brand of humor with poignant, entertaining, and honest portrayals of parenting, marriage, and real life. She currently lives in northeastern Ohio with her husband, two children, two dogs, two cats, and numerous dust bunnies who wish to remain nameless.