I walked into the laundry room and saw a huge spider. Mega spider. The sort of spider an arachnophobe dreads finding in her home. I yelled for my husband, also an arachnophobe.

“I’ve got a spider I need you to kill, and you’re not going to like the look of it!”

He saw it, shuddered, and found something to kill it with. It was in an awkward spot, perched high up in the corner behind the washing machine. I left the room, because if there’s anything worse than seeing a giant spider in my laundry room it’s seeing a giant spider move in my laundry room.

I’m safely out of the room, playing with the baby, when I hear, “Whoa! The fucker jumped at me!” This is totally not what I wanted to hear, and I said as much.

“Well, he’s gone,” says my husband.

“Gone?” I query. I’m completely unsatisfied with this.

“He jumped at me, and then dropped behind the washing machine. I’m not going to pull the washer out to hunt for the spider. He probably crawled into a dark crevice. I’m sure you’ll never see him again.”

I’ll spare you the whining and sniveling that came after that statement. I wasn’t happy with the outcome, but conceded that pulling the washing machine out was not a viable option.

Fast forward a week.

My husband is washing baby bottles in the kitchen, and I’m sitting on the floor with the baby in the basement. We’re playing with a new toy I got her at a yard sale. There are toys all around us, and a pillow behind her. Happy music is playing. She’s pushing buttons on this big flat orange toy, which I am holding up for her. She’s smiling, laughing, learning, we’re having a great time. And then a giant spider falls on her face.

Seriously, right on her face. On her happy smiling face. On her smart, innocent, learning little face. This spider had so much weight that I heard it land. And I started to scream. Loudly. Terrifyingly.

In a split second I had at least a dozen thoughts. Fuck! I don’t want to touch it! Can it bite?! Did it bite?! Where’s the web?! Where’s Paul?! That was so loud! EW EW EW EW EW EW EW! Did she even notice?! How loud am I screaming?! Face! Her face! How do I get it off of her without touching it?! OMG OMG OMG OMFG!!! I was never supposed to see him again! Her FACE!

And lightning fast, I pushed/smacked/brushed it from her face to her chest, as she fell backwards on to the pillow. Then I swiped it sideways off of her shirt and on to the floor. While screaming like a mad warrior I took the big bright orange toy we had been playing with and smashed the spider with it twice, hard, so hard that I was surprised the next time I turned on the toy and it worked.

I snatched up my, now terrified and stunned and screaming right along with me, baby. I looked towards the stairs, where my husband was standing in a panic. He had practically flown down the stairs. He’d heard my screams and by their severity judged our daughter to be dead.

“Spider! On her face!” was all I could get out, while pointing at the play area. He inspected the area, and found the giant spider, dead, under the orange educational toy.

“Huh. And I thought we’d never see him again.”

Instead of smacking him I just continued soothing our terrified baby. And I made a mental note. Next time he says I’ll never see the spider again, I will not believe him. And inconvenience be damned, I’m going to make him pull out the damn washing machine.

Thanks, NaBloPoMo, for giving me the prompt for this post. This is easily the most traumatic thing that’s happened to me since getting the epidural I needed for my c-section.

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