My real, human child is no longer small, she's 5'-3"! While I'm thankful she's older, something that has always been absolutely terrible about being a parent in the past 11 years is the responsibility of killing bugs for the sake of calming her. I'm serious when I say I can recall that moment with the positive pee stick as I cupped my face in my hands while still sitting on the toilet and thought, Shit- I'm going to have to kill a terrifying bug here and there. My go-to reaction has always been "ignore it and it will go away". If I see a spider on the ceiling I don't panic, I simply exit the room for an hour and pretend I never saw it. I used to be a drop-a-heavy-book-on-the-bug kind of girl and in my teenage years, Dad would vacuum every week so eventually that book would get moved and the dead bug would be gone.
Breana and I never use the master bathroom jetted tub. It's one of those stupid tubs that are dangerous to climb in and out and it's impossible to clean unless you're inside it, and getting inside is dangerous, so why do that? I just won't use it. Last summer, I noticed a dead roach in my big tub. I was pleased it died on its own without any assistance from me, but honestly I cringe when I have to pick up a dead bug. I hate it. So I named it Whitney Houston and I admit it hung around longer than it should have. I mean, the damn tub is so deep we plum forgot about her being dead in there. Until last Fall when Breana and I were watching "Fixer Upper" on HGTV and Chip Gaines ate a dead cockroach and Breana looked over at me and said, "Mom, you should do that with Whitney Houston." Shit- I'd forgotten about her. So Whitney finally received a proper burial by way of toilet flush.
This past Saturday I was tired, like dozing-off-at-9:00-pm-on-the-sofa-tired, which is early for me. So much has been going on and I spent the morning helping with an event at work and then over to Urban Tree Cidery to finish up some artwork. I came home around 6:00 and took Breana out to dinner, where we both didn't touch our phones during our time out together. This is huge for her and she'll lay the guilt on if I so much as try to check a text message. But I do have to say the most fun we had was when I was ready to crash in my bed and she came in my room to tell me, "Hey, Mom? There's a spider on my ceiling."
"Okay," I said, trying to come up with a plan that involved immediate sleep for me, "just sleep with me or in the guest room."
"No, I want to sleep in my bed."
"Well then just ignore the spider, it'll go away."
"No! What if it falls down onto my bed?!"
"That probably happens more times than we know in life."
"Mom! Kill it!"
"Ugh, why do we have to kill it- what did it ever do to us?" I said this days after a friend's husband had gone into the hospital after a spider bite. "Oh fine..."
So I stood on Breana's bed with a wad of paper towels, probably too thick to even grasp onto anything. Breana just stood in her doorway coaching me on administering a good Hulk smash and then resorting to counting "1, 2... 3!" over and over again.
"Breana, I need a book. Or a shoe."
With a shoe in hand, I (think I) smashed that small spider and it fell onto her bed, scurrying around in fear and confusion. Breana & I were both screaming hysterically, but it was the kind that is mixed in with laughter. I scooped up the spider with my paper towel wad and with my go go gadget arm fully extended 10' from my body, I deposited the spider into the toilet. Breana was pleased, ready for bed and I was wide awake now. It was sort of fun. Also, I was wondering if I had even picked up the spider from her bed. Did I get it? I wasn't 100% sure. I kind of smoothed out her bedding like I was being a good, tidy Mom, when really I was spider searching. Oh well, I'll just tuck her in and pretend the spider didn't run off to hide under the bed to kill us in the night or something. Out of sight, out of mind. Ignore it and it will go away. Somewhere.
Atlanta, Georgia 30318
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