I hate cicadas.

I hate their big, beady eyes. I hate their prehistoric bodies, and how they'll fly into you, heedlessly, like a drunken man spinning around a party. I hate how wormy they look when freshly emerged from their exoskeletons. Speaking of exoskeletons, I hate how cicadas leave little empty copies of themselves all around. I hate how hard it is to tell a live cicada from one of their shells.

I've already had one cicada-related injury in my life. My younger brother used to chase me around the house with all manner of critters — garden snakes and such — and when I was 9 years old, I jumped off a seesaw to get away from a cicada he'd tossed my way. I fell on my arm awkwardly and broke it, and ever since, my dislike of cicadas evolved into fierce hatred.

I have, however, had to live in uneasy coexistence with a tremendous number of cicadas these past couple of weeks as two broods emerged simultaneously for the first time in more than 200 years. Our neighborhood, our sons' school, our own house, have been overrun. The birds are doing their part to thin the herd, but still, the tree in our backyard is practically covered in shed skins, and you have to be careful where you step or risk sending yet another cicada to meet its maker.

My sons, though, are loving the whole thing, exoskeletons and all. They spent two hours on the playground on a recent sunny afternoon playing with the cicadas, building them a hotel and crafting elaborate worlds starring the insects as the main characters. They named one of the cicadas "Bob."

"Bob died, Mom," my older son said as he held a branch with a cicada on it.

"He doesn't look dead to me," I said, shifting away.

"No, this is Buster," he said, proudly showing me the branch, bringing it closer to my face so I could see it better.

"OK, just keep Buster over there, will you?" I said, taking a step back.

"He's not going to hurt you," my son said.

"I know that," I said.

I did know that. I really did.

I took another step back.

"Isn't he cute?" he said.

I made a noncommittal noise, even though I thought to myself that if cicadas were "cute," then the word's definition has been turned upside down. Cicadas are about as cute as a hammerhead shark. If cicadas are cute, then rattlesnakes are cute. Zombies are cute.

But I didn't say any of those things. I mean, I didn't want to spoil his fun.

And the cicada invasion won't last forever. In about a month, the cicadas will depart, burrowing back into the dirt to ride out a 17-year-long siesta.

I realized that the next time I encounter another emergence like this, my kids will both be adults, hopefully fully launched into the world and living their own lives, possibly one that only includes me occasionally. I will never again have a moment exactly like this one, with these bugs and these surroundings, and my children might remember it forever, the summer of the cicadas.

I'm unsure of where I'll be when the cicadas next emerge. I'm not sure which of my loved ones will still be here, who will be gone. Maybe I'll be gone. The world is going to keep spinning as the cicadas sleep underground.

Honestly, that thought endeared them to me a little. Because life is kind of like that: Even when it's miserable, it's all we've got. The seasons come, and then they go.

We might as well enjoy the summer while it lasts — and the cicadas that come with it.

That's what I've decided to do, anyway.

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

Photo credit: Shannon Potter at Unsplash