armadillidiidae
Josh and Nico are infatuated with rolly pollies. On our daily walks, if they spot one scurrying along the sidewalk, they’ll both crouch down next to it and just stare, tilting their heads whichever way it scuttles.
“Bah!” Nico will point and shout.
“Bah” because he can’t quite say bug yet.
Eventually, Nico will poke at it, causing the rolly pollie to curl up into a ball (conglobation if ya nasty).
That’s my cue to bust out the empty pickle jar. Once the bah is curled up, I can easily grab it and toss it in. Rolly pollies land with a satisfying dink, their hard exoskeletons bouncing off the glass.
“Bah!”
Dink.
Fun fact: Rolly pollies (or pill bugs or doodle bugs or whatever) are actually not bugs. They’re crustaceans. Which means they’re more closely related to lobsters or crabs than ants or beetles. They even have gills instead of lungs. Also, a female rolly pollie doesn’t need a male to reproduce. She can do bad all by herself.
I know this and more because Josh made me watch a twenty-minute YouTube video on rolly pollies so we could learn how to take better care of them.
• • •
I’m not sure where this obsession with rolly pollies came from. There are many different types of creepy crawlers in the neighborhood. The other day, Josh saw a scorpion and said “Oh, look!” and I said “NO JESUS DON’T TOUCH THAT.”
There’s just something about rolly pollies that has us smitten.
Maybe it’s because they’re so slow and defenseless and easy to catch (relatable). Maybe it’s their ability to curl up into a ball to avoid all of life’s problems (admirable). Or maybe it’s their fourteen legs (enviable).
Regardless of the reason behind our love for the critters, rolly pollies have captured our hearts. In return, we captured some in an empty pickle jar.
• • •
The first batch we brought home died.
We caught three around 8:15am, put them in a Tupperware container with some rocks, only to come back out at 12:47pm to find that they had rolly-ed their last pollie. The three were half-curled in the fetal position, shriveled up into dry, lifeles husks
The second batch also died.
So did the third.
Each time it happened, I told the kids that the rolly pollies were sleeping (even with everything going on right now, I still don’t know how to talk about death with kids who aren’t yet in pre-school).
Although the lifespan of a rolly pollie is two to five years, they didn’t last longer than two to five hours with us. It wasn’t until we watched that YouTube video that we figured out what we were doing wrong:
It’s hot as balls out.
Being crustaceans (and, you know, still having gills), rolly pollies need to be in a damp, moist environment to thrive. A Tupperware container on our patio during a Texas summer is the opposite of damp and moist.
With the fourth batch, we put in some wet dirt, a few twigs and some dead leaves. They lasted three days.
• • •
A certain section of our neighborhood is chock full of rolly pollies. There’s a giant spider sculpture that provides ample shade, which is probably why they congregate (and conglobate) there. We usually spend a good half hour around the giant spider, scooping up as many as we can find.
The search for the terrestrial crustaceans provides a bit of solace for us. Our familial unit has a singular focus, a common task we can accomplish together. When we’re out searching for rolly pollies, we’re not just a family going for a walk. We become rolly pollie cowboys embarking on a regular ol’ rootin’ tootin’ rolly pollie round-up.
Nico and Josh act as the eyes of the operation. Delma and I, the muscle (fun fact: you only really need eyes and muscles). They point ’em out, we pick ’em up then toss ’em in. The four of us march together as a unit, eventually falling into a rhythm.
“Bah!”
Dink.
“Bah!”
Dink.
Distraction would be putting it mildly. When the rolly pollie squad™ is out a hunting, nothing else matters. For a few minutes, one can almost pretend that everything’s normal, a brief respite from the shit storm that is 2020. But the escape never lasts long. A jogger will run right by us, a little too close for comfort. An older couple will stare at our masks, shaking their heads. A few times, we’ll have to usher the kids off the path, out of the way of people who don’t believe in social distancing.
Temporary escapes are just that.
Temporary.
• • •
On one of our excursions, Josh asked to hold the pickle jar.
“I just want to see the rolly pollies,” he told me.
I handed it to him and chased after Nico who had run off. He was crouched down, pointing at a group of rolly pollies (A gaggle of rolly pollies? A horde? What’s the right term for a pill bug collective?).
“Bah! Bah!”
As I bent down to pick them up, I heard a crash and whipped around to find Josh on the ground. The jar had smashed into several pieces, scattered around him. He had been staring at the rolly pollies so intently, he failed to see the curb and tripped. I ran over to pick him up, sweeping the glass away with my foot as I wiped the dirt off his shirt.
“You ok, kid? You alright?” I asked.
That’s when I noticed the blood trickling down his right leg. I think we both saw it at the same time. He looked up at me for a second with a confused expression, then scrunched up his face and started bawling.
Frantically, I picked up both kids and carried them to the car, trying not to rub Josh’s leg against my torso. The entire way home, Josh was wailing about the rolly pollies we had left behind.
“It’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok!” I kept repeating.
“Bah!” said Nico. “Bah!”
The physical damage was minimal. He had a couple of scratches along his shin and two small shards of glass embedded below his knee, which Delma plucked out with some tweezers. After cleaning him up with some hydrogen peroxide and applying a couple Paw Patrol band-aids over the cuts, he was fine. Like nothing had happened.
Children are incredibly resilient, able to bounce back from nearly anything. But as a parent, the hope is that you can protect them from all of life’s “nearly anythings.” You can’t, of course. There are so many things beyond your control. One wrong step and boom. Fractured tibia. Change shirts too quickly and bam. Partially dislocated elbow.
I was already struggling with not being able to constantly protect them, but now I feel completely and utterly helpless. The pandemic. The recession. The psychological effects of social isolation. The systemic racism rampant in our country. Hell, even the murder hornets.
It’s enough to make you want to just grab your kids and curl up into a little ball, shielding them from the outside world.
• • •
The next morning, Josh wanted to go out to the giant spider. Back at it again with the rolly pollies.
“Bah,” agreed Nico.
To replace the pickle jar, we dug up a plastic cup from Rainforest Cafe. The top part is a large frog’s head and the straw hole is juuuust big enough to deposit rolly pollies into. Like a pill bug piggy bank.
Fun fact: Frogs are one of the rolly pollie’s many natural predators. That list includes newts, toads, spiders, rats, birds, mice, geckos, Josh and Nico.
Every second rolly pollies spend above ground, they’re in danger, their fates out of their control as they scurry from rock to rock in search of sustenance. Yet, there they go, thriving and surviving, having rolly-ed to nearly every continent on this planet.
Despite the many risks they face, they’re everywhere. A single female can lay as many as 50 eggs up to three times a year. You can’t stop them. They’ve adapted in order to overcome adversity. They can digest metals. They can eat their own poo. They can drink out their booty holes. They’re basically a crustacean Hydra. If one perishes, a dozen more lie waiting under a rotting log, ready to take its place.
Humans aren’t as prolific. It’s partly why the notion of death scares us so much. We’re kind of attached to our offspring. When you have as many babies as a rolly pollie, you can spare a few here and there. But when you don’t, you fiercely protect the few you do have.
You can’t protect them all the time. But you try. You buy them helmets and knee guards. Apply bug spray, put on sunscreen. You watch for oncoming cars. Put plastic covers over outlets. You hold them, carry them, occasionally coddle them. Tell them not to run too fast. Usher them away from broken glass. You clean their cuts. Put on band-aids. You do what you can and hope they’re safe and that all they remember from this time is catching rolly pollies.
