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Now, we've been to the Butterfly House quite a few times. We know how it works. Don't touch the butterflies. Don't touch the flowers. If you can manage it, don't touch the walkways with your feet. I understand these rules, and I fully understand the need for them. I work hard to make sure my kid follows these rules as closely as possible.

Within minutes of walking into the conservatory, Clara Jane picked up a fuzzy pink bloom on the ground which had fallen off a plant. One of the botonists was instantly on top of us: "She needs to put that down."

"Right," I said, chasing Clara Jane while trying to snatch the fallen bloom from her grip.

"She needs to put that down and not touch any of the flowers," he repeated. "We don't know the toxicity of any of these plants!"

Well.

That fills me with confidence. Dude. You're a botonist. In an indoor garden. Every single thing in here was planted on purpose. Every single plant has a little sign. You know the toxicity; you're just trying to scare us.

And it worked. A group of parents with toddlers overheard and an audible gasp arose. A few of them looked at me like I was feeding Clara Jane a spoonful of arsenic.

Obviously, the flower was, indeed, toxic. Looks like it was a mild psychotropic.

Clara Jane enjoyed the buzz, but now she's lying in her crib, fighting the images of six-headed botonists with lizard's feet. I hear babies never forget their first bad trip.

She also hallucinated some giant caterpillars:

On Wednesday he ate one tripped-out toddler, but he was still hungry. For her increased toxicity levels gave him a wicked case of the munchies.

In other news of idiots saying stupid things to me today ...

Once Clara Jane came down from The Pink Haze, she demanded a chicken taco, along with a package of Nutter Butters, some Orange Crush and a box of Cocoa Puffs. As we were eating, I noticed a woman watching Clara Jane with that blissed-out look that ovarian types tend to get while watching small children. Either that, or she'd been fondling the fluffy pink flowers, too. As she was leaving the restaurant she stopped at our table and said, "Your little girl is so cute. She must look exactly like your husband."

All I can say is, that bitch best have been smoking crack.