I have a complicated relationship with insects–especially butterflies. After enduring a morbid terror of the winged little monsters for most of my life, I finally got around to conquering my fear of them several years ago. I spent a year desensitizing myself by reading entomology books, befriending lepidopterists, and forcing myself to browse through the specimen drawers at the Museum of Natural History. The whole project culminated in a transformative visit to the monarch butterfly overwintering grounds in the mountains of central Mexico. It was me versus all 50 million surviving migrants and I’m pleased to say I only hyperventilated once and never–not even once–fainted.

But when you stop with the exercises, the old fears come back and I find myself now in the awkward position of both loving and loathing insects–especially butterflies.

So it was with a mixture of sadness and satisfaction that I discovered my daughter wavering similarly between those two extremes as she lay on her play mat beneath a rather benign looking stuffed butterfly.

If she could speak, she’d be saying: “I love you. Get off of me!”

See for yourself.