I learned something new about Chloe last night.

It was a warm evening, the first of many I hope.

I decided to take her outside after her bath and just look around the yard at some of the flowers starting to bloom, check out some hot spots for the rabbits we see hopping around the backyard and soak in some of the freshly cut grass smell mixed with a light rain—the cologne of spring.

As I was pointing to our one and only purple tulip, Chloe flinched and started to shake. She squealed, “Ahhhhh, BUTTERFLY!!! I want to go inside! AHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Almost inconsolable, I calmly held her and explained to her that the butterfly was friendly, that he meant no harm to either of us. I told her his name was “Monarch” and that he was orange and black.

“His name is scary. He’s orange because he eats our cheese! Ahhh Buttefly!”

I talked to her about the butterfly’s migration habits to and from Mexico, a fictional voyage I may or may not have overheard while Greg watched a documentary and I sat next to him with my eyes closed pretending to be paying attention.

“Ah Mexico! I hate Mexico and I hate butterflies! They are scary! I want to go inside!”

Greg, Hanna and Ellie appeared from a nature walk where they had “found” some beautiful, cherry blossom twigs for a couple of vases.

Just as one might scream about an earthquake or announce that the world was about to implode, Chloe pointed at the wall and while running to safety within the confines of the house, she shouted back to us, “Daddy! Run! We’ve got monarchs!”