minor victories :: arachnid edition

Given my choice of greeting to come from any of my four bambini first thing in the morning, I'd nearly always decline "I need fresh clothes," or "Mom... spider."  Yet, I've heard both of these this week, and it's only Monday.

Every August it seems we find one or two of those horrible huge wolf spiders (of which I will *not* post a picture.  Inquiring minds can Google it for themselves.) that are often seen in the landscape around here -- though never welcome in our home even if they do hunt other arachnids.   According to the elder lad with  encyclopedic recall a little too handy for 6:30 a.m. and no coffee yet, "tarantulas are the least poisonous of any spider," but that does nothing to ingratiate the silver dollar-sized arachnid (which I made reference to in a similar showdown with a cricket and don't think is actually a tarantula, those close enough for me)  presently sprawled from the tile floor up the baseboard in the kitchen, seemingly awaiting a bagel with cream cheese of his own. 

I generally delegate the disposal of these ugly things to my beloved when he is on the premises, but there have been a few times when I've had to muster up every bit of bravery, channel all my mama bear protective instincts (and Ma Ingalls), and git 'er done myself.  This was one of those times.

As the four bambini sat riveted to their kitchen chairs, French toast untouched, I stood stupidly staring at the spider, hoping it would somehow spontaneously combust or otherwise evaporate into thin air.  When it didn't, I grabbed a wad of paper towels and started to lower the boom, but chickened out and left the four children at the table with the spider close by (there goes my whole mama bear protective thing) in search of a pair of shoes and something with which to whack the intruder, all the while questioning the prudence of that in the event the spider was actually a mama spider with babies on board. 

The elder lad was losing patience with my inaction thus far: "you're too scared," he said.  By the grace of God my response was not "do it yourself then" but "I'm gathering up all my courage."  Then I went for it, accomplishing the terminal goal so decisively that the younger lad, ever the diplomat and optimist, was moved to exclaim victoriously, "You tore off his leg!  Now he's really dead!" 

The elder lad looked on approvingly at the mama he'd accused of being a 'fraidy cat.  His opinion had changed by then, and he went about his breakfast business.   I didn't need any coffee for a while after that incident...