If I study too much about ladybugs, I won’t like what I find. I’ll discover that they’re not ladies at all. I’ll discover that they’re asexual dotted monsters with hearts and fangs to melt and eat the world.
Gardeners know better. They have been waging a war on ladybugs for centuries. They’re losing. The odds aren’t in their favor.
When my son comes home with a picture of a ladybug zoomed in a hundred times a hundred, it’s best for me to focus on the dishes. I don’t want to see her sharp hooks and artillery. I don’t want to see her glowing red eyes before bedtime.
Not when I’m too tired to translate the world into something beautiful. Not when I need to get up early and exercise.