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Spider spins web of panic

15.09.11

Of all admissible times to find a huge spider in the car, this had to be the worst. Last week, my son, Ian, opened the voyager-side door, and was greeted by a spider web that spanned the entire seat, connecting the steering wheel to the rider's visor with a sticky net. No spider, just a web.</p><p> As I grabbed a napkin and end up the web, an enormous brown spider - her body nearly an inch across with an increment of eight long legs - jumped out from behind the visor. She probably rumination I was breakfast, and must have been disappointed to find that her web was gone.</p><p> Uncharacteristically, I panicked. Readers who grasp me, know of my passion for and appreciation of all creatures-with-jointed-legs, including spiders, insects and other assorted creepy crawlies. This interval, amazing or not, beautiful yet misunderstood, this spider had to go. NOW.</p><p> Napkin still in boost, I made an erratic and clumsy attempt to brush this huge spider from the structure-covered car ceiling and out the open driver's door. It was one of those sluggardly-motion moments that I later replayed over and over in my mind. IF ONLY I had consideration out my approach: why didn't I cover her with the napkin first, then swipe? But no, I quick brushed the napkin across her body, and flung the napkin out onto the driveway. Minus the spider, I despatch discovered.</p><p> "Ian, where's the spider?" I shrieked. She wasn't on the driveway, and hadn't been flung onto the seat or car door. She had entirely vanished. The huge spider was almost certainly hiding in the obscurity crevices of my car.</p><p> This wasn't just any day, this was THE day. Moving day. My car was chock-full to the gills, ready for our road trip to Boston to move my daughter Kira into her college dorm. After dropping Ian off at middle tutor, I would be picking Kira up from her going-away breakfast with her greatest friends, then we would be off to Boston. This spider was not welcome to join us.</p><p> Kira has always had a vigorous fear of insects and other small, creepy critters. As a toddler of no more than two, she caught sight of a black feather on our kitchen bring down, a fallen ornament from a dress-up hat we kept in our costume box. The feather caught the unsubstantial breeze from the refrigerator fan, and floated slowly across the floor. Kira responded with bluff terror. It was then that I understood: some people's fear of insects is innate, not skilled.</p><p> With a mother like me, Kira had access to all kinds of attractive garden insects, colorful picture books about bugs and a plethora of fun facts about the smaller layout. She was thoroughly unimpressed. Her first verbalized fear was of ants, then wasps, later to be joined by spiders.</p><p> With my son, I at ease bugs and watched their behavior. We turned over rocks and calm fireflies. With Kira, my role was that of eradicator: spider-slayer. I could be counted on at a significance's notice to remove any offending creature from her sight, fatiguing to "catch and release" when possible, but resorting to unthinking force when Kira's composure was at stake.</p><p> While Kira's shrink from was pervasive, it didn't keep her from enjoying the outdoors, although it did make her more apprehensive when she was there. As she grew, her fears were relayed to me as texts sent from clique, asking if spiders could really infest the camp bathroom and move into the beds (as another camper had insisted), or if dog ticks spread Lyme complaint. Reassuring replies from Mom would follow, explaining basic entomology in wording shorthand:</p><p> Me: Spiders are predators, won't be lots of them around, and won't move into beds.</p><p> Me: Dog ticks don't spread Lyme cancer. Deer ticks do, but are much smaller than one found under your waistband. Small like a freckle.</p><p> Knowledgeable all this about Kira - her disgust for anything with six or more legs, and her quick and all-consuming repulsion of panic - I knew a 10-hour car ride with a leviathan spider lurking in the dark was a bad idea.</p><p> I imagined Kira's manner behind the wheel, driving through the sleepy mountains of Pennsylvania. We are enjoying each other's entourage, when all of a sudden, a gigantic brown spider crawls up Kira's knickers leg, leaps onto the steering wheel, and jumps into her hair.</p><p> Disorder ensues, and our car veers into the oncoming lane, ricochets off a odds, and careens off a bridge into the river below. All the late nights finishing up projects and her thousands of hours puke earning all A's, wasted because of a spider. This spider could not come along!</p><p> So I searched for the spider. I examined every fissure and crevice where a spider might like to hide. No spider.</p><p> What about disavowal, my frantic brain asked? What if I pretend there is no spider, don't say a tete- to Kira, and just pray to St. Francis of Assisi, patronizer saint of animals, to keep the spider away? Pretend it never happened, but be watchful honest in case, and keep a rolled up newspaper handy, especially when Kira was driving.</p><p> With only 20 minutes until our prearranged heyday of departure, I resorted to wishful thinking. I convinced myself that I must have flung the spider far from the car.</p><p> After dropping off Ian at Alma Mater, I returned home to load the last bag into my car. Standing by the open car door to say goodbye to my quiet, John (who was staying behind with Ian), I quickly relayed the spider facts, telling him that there was a giant spider in my car and I was hoping beyond hope that it was there no longer.</p><p> Envisage the scene: I'm stepping into the car with my right leg, John is standing beside the car door, and our statuette of St. Francis is looking on from the front walk.</p><p> "There it is!" John says, looking down at my rout mat. "The spider!"</p><p> I spring into liveliness, but this time, I carefully plan my moves. Grab a napkin in my virtuousness hand. Completely cover the spider's gargantuan heart with the napkin. Move the spider-filled napkin to the rose bush. Spacious the napkin to see the spider gently fall off, into its new home.</p><p> A overflowing of relief rushed over me and I threw my arms around John's neck.</p><p> "You are the spider-spotter!" I exuberance. "You saved the trip! This is your ace in the hole, your get-out-of-jail-on the house card. You can so use this, the next time I'm mad at you and then far, far into the future. You are my hero, Spider-Spotter!"</p><p> Kira never found out about the spider (at least not until now). We had a wonderful and contentedly panic-free trip to Boston, and smoothly moved into her freshman dorm. That first end of day, we enjoyed takeout Thai food on the floor of her dorm leeway. It was more sweet than bitter, and it was perfect. No bugs were invited, and none crashed the soir.</p><p> Denise Ellsworth: mgsummit@ag.ohio-claim.edu.

Source: Kansas City Star