This morning as I was getting Ducky dressed, a spider started crawling on him. We both got scared. He jumped up, and started pointing. I started panicking and screaming. We then started jumping around, as I am trying to get him to shake it off. But then I was afraid the spider would land on me so I ran across the room. He didn’t know how to get it off himself since one and a half year old boys aren’t exactly known for their coordination skills. Apparently neither are thirty year old women.
As we are jumping around and squealing Munchie walks in and asks what is going on:
Munchie: What is going on mommy?
Me: I am trying to get a spider off of Ducky!
Munchie: He is over there mommy *pointing at her brother*
Me: Yes hunny, but I am trying to get the spider off of him from over here…
After more commotion Hubby walks in, as I am pelting my son with stuffed animals and attempting to enlist my daughter to help. (That mother of the year award is bound to arrive any day now. I am sure it just got lost in the mail).
Then Ducky starts running towards the door. So now I have a moving target. But that is okay, I live in Simi Valley. Which is like Texas. We all have great aims. I am pretty sure that was a requirement for moving into the neighborhood.
By now I was sure the spider was had gotten off of him. You know what is way more scary than seeing a spider? Not knowing where the spider went. I walk down the hallway as if I am navigating a mine field. Luckily I have light colored floors. (When I redid our floors I had spiders in mind). I thought I saw something moving towards the den area. I was thinking about throwing a shoe at it, but by now both the kids had migrated towards the den. For those of you who have never seen my shoes, they are not really get-hit-in-the-head friendly. So I did what any rational woman would do, and briefly contemplated burning the house down. Spider would never get out in time! Then sanity kicked in again.
So now, aside from the college fund I created for the kids, I will also have to build a therapy fund. For when they turn thirty and start remembering all the things Mommy did.