Now I realize that playing in the grass is a God-given right for all suburban American kids.

It’s one of the trade-offs for living in a cultureless, mini-mall strewn, conformity factory.  And it’s a good one.  Grass is awesome.

But.
Um…
You see…

Well, I have this spider thing.

And I’ve found that I cannot put Daphne down in the grass without wondering what kinds of eight-legged monstrosities are lying in wait under that green canopy, ready to puncture her exposed baby skin with their fangs and inject deadly neurotoxins into her little body.

“Yess…yesss….  Bring the child  to usssss.”

I hate them.  A lot.  In the face.

They didn’t used to bother me.  But one winter of living in a basement in Utah, land of the “Hobo Spider” (a.k.a. the “Aggressive House Spider”), cured me of my tolerance for arachnid coexistence.

Oh, you don’t know of the hobo spider?  Lucky you.

Essentially, they’re brown recluses on bath salts.  Lacking the desire to lurk that’s inherent in most spiders, they instead enjoy charging right at you, fangs bared, and chittering a maniacal spider laugh as you run screaming in the opposite direction.  They’re psychotic.  And they climbed in through my windows at night when it got too cold.

It was horrifying.  And clearly traumatic.

So now, the thought of spiders being anywhere near my daughter tends to trigger me a little bit.

“Wait, there’s what?”

“In the grass?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Stop being silly.”

 “Hey!  You spiders!  Quit scaring my daddy!”

j.s.