We got a butterfly kit as a gift. It comes in the mail as a cup of caterpillars. (Talk about snail mail!) Over three weeks, they metamorphose into pretty Painted Lady butterflies.

It’s not for the fainthearted. While my kids were enthralled, checking their progress every morning, I was less enamored. The caterpillars grew ten times their original size, as the instructions guaranteed, sprouting dozens of miniscule feet and slithering around day and night. Honestly, I could hardly enjoy a simple coffee without gagging.

At one point, while trying to enjoy said coffee, I stashed the container of caterpillars into a cupboard above the oven. And promptly forgot about it.

Hours later, when I happened to open the cabinet, I was greeted by a web of lethargic thingies; the heat from below had nearly roasted them. Before the kids arrived home, I rushed the container back to the windowsill.

The days passed, and the caterpillars followed the kit’s promises to a t. They wriggled, they fell, they ate, they spun silk. A week in, they climbed to the lid, hung upside down from the top, shed their exoskeleton (a posh word for outer layer), and stuck there until their inner beauty, the butterfly, was ready to emerge from the now hardened shell — the chrysalis. (Cocoons belong to the moth, their cousin.)

That week-long phase was boring since they hung unmoving, like micro shriveled bananas. If the kids wanted action, they’d shake the cup. When moved, the chrysalides sprang to life, vibrating back and forth as though they had gotten an electric shock — a defense mechanism against predators.

The week before Pesach — luckily, it was when the kids were off school — the shells darkened, a sign the chrysalides were soon to open. All day, expectant pairs of eyes were glued to the chrysalides, now rehoused in a mesh hamper.

I was knee-deep in the Pesach kitchen when I heard hysterical shrieks, followed by a sudden hush. I darted upstairs, certain there was an emergency. The spectacle that greeted me made me guffaw. My kids were knotted around the mesh garden, heads bopping each other to get a better view of … drumroll … butterfly number one’s appearance.

Alas, I missed it. Apparently, it was an awesome sight. The chrysalis splits open to reveal a black-and-orange butterfly. The first few seconds, its wings are soft, papery, and crinkled. It sways to help its wings expand, while rapidly curling the two thin strands of its tongue to fuse them into one.

I was sorry I missed the niflaos haBorei and promised I wouldn’t miss the next one. Four to go.  

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 593)