David took a huge bite of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. As I watched, a tiny ant appeared on the table and crawled toward his plate. Instinctively, I reached over and mashed it with my finger.

A moment later, a little tear-streaked face shouted, “ Mommy, he is my best friend! My BEST friend. and you SMOOCHED him!”

Caught off-guard by his reaction, I glanced at the dark pulpy mass that had been the ant. I looked at David, and then back again at the bug. Sometimes it’s mighty hard to know what to say.

Should I tell David that bugs can’t be best friends with three-year-olds? Hmm, too harsh…

Should I say that the ant carried germs and wanted to put those nasty germs on the yummy sandwich? No, still not enough compassion.

Maybe I should I offer to hold a proper burial and memorial service in the back yard? I could solemnly put the dead ant into a little box, dig a hole, say a prayer, and lay him to rest. We could use crayons to draw a homemade tombstone bearing the epitaph, “Here lies Mr. Ant, David’s best friend, callously crushed by David’s mother, 2008 - 2008.”

All these thoughts fly through my head as my son glares reproachfully at me and puts his hand over the dead bug to guard him.

I decide not to say anything.

Instead I opt for giving a hug. Then I promise never ever to do that again.

I guess I better go throw away the cans of quick-acting bug spray too.