My parents live in a secluded area. It’s not the country, exactly, but they have a huge yard with an area of overgrown woods we used to explore as kids. Naturally, there were all kinds of bugs and animals hiding in its midst. And spiders.
We came upon one of these spiders when hiking through with my brother. It was a tarantula, I’m pretty sure. Though we didn’t stick around long enough for a personal examination. We quickly darted off as fast as we could run and never looked back. If my nightmares serve correctly, I actually think it jumped at us.
Not long after, I was busy listening to music in my room when I hear a rustling. My wall was covered with posters and I thought maybe one had fallen down. I look around, though, and nothing. So I turn the radio back on, but I hear it again. At this point, my interest is peaked. What in the world…?
When a tarantula crawls down my wall. From behind one of my posters.
I screamed. Like a girl. And ran. Like a bat out of hell. Leaving my bumbling parents to take care of it.
I’ve never felt the same about spiders since.
So even though the spider that Jedi pointed to as it crawled across my bedroom was small and black and probably harmless, they all resemble a hairy tarantula poised to attack now. I had to take care of it, though, when I would have preferred to run and scream. Because being a parent means doing things you really don’t want to do. Even when it involves giant (tiny) hairy (or not) arachnids.