Eight legged fears

I was reading somewhere a while back (it might have been in Caitlin Moran’s How to be a Woman book) that when you’re a parent, you’re no longer scared by things that used to scare you.

Her point, I think, was that there are so many new things to be concerned about – and as someone who daily worries about the different ways E could die, I understand – that you don’t have time for trivial old matters.

However, it isn’t true. I am still scared of things of old. Here is a list:

  • fairground rides, planes, ladders and anything manmade and metal that takes you off the ground
  • potential lunatics looking in a lighted window at me while camped outside in the dark ready to strike
  • Spiders

It’s nearly September, my favourite month, my favourite season, my birthday month and yet the worst month for spider sightings. Newspapers revel in stories of ENORMOUS creatures making their way into our houses to raise their young.

The fear is still there but what has changed since I became a mum is how I deal with it. I used to have the squeamish “it won’t hurt you so be nice” liberal conscience and not kill them. SO I spent evenings nervously reading with one eye on the creature at all times until I went to bed or I’d get my spider catching contraption out, try and pick it up and take it into the garden. Releasing it was always a problem (assuming I hadn’t got its legs caught in the lid by mistake in the act of picking it up) – in case it ran out onto my toes so I tended to hurl it across the garden and fetch the device back the next day.

Post-E, I no longer do this namby pamby stuff. I kill them. Anyone who tells you that these days books are useless and the future is digital either doesn’t mind spiders or hasnt thought their domestic arrangements through. Books will save you. Heavy books. Dictionaries. They can be dropped and then stepped on.

I know I know. But I think it’s something to do with control. There are many things I can’t control but this I can. Sorry spiders. You have been warned.

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