GAAAAHHHHHHHH!

I told you several months ago that I moved in with my in-laws.

I have a story I could tell, every day, about this adventure, but I am saving them all up to tell them in bulk some day.

Speaking of telling you stories,

it appears I have not

shared my dirty-mouth-due-to-Biggest Loser-story.

My apologies.

I shall remedy that now.

Let me start by telling you

that I just really don't like cursing.

I don't even like to say, "I swear"

when I mean "I'm totally serious."

Until this story took place,

I had only said one bad word

in my whole life.

It was in sixth-grade and I was late for the

bus for a band field trip

and I couldn't find my flute.

I said "the s word."

Gasp.

I don't even really like writing

"the s word."

But yes, I played the flute in middle school.

However nerdy and school-girl

you can imagine me at that age,

multiply it by about a million and a half,

and that would be me.

In purple stirrup pants.

But back to present day.

Imagine me a just a few weeks from birthing

my second son.

Huge.

And tired.

And with a brain that was totally malfunctioning.

Andy and I were watching

Biggest Loser.

Well, I was sort of spacing out on the couch

while Biggest Loser was on

and Andy was taking care

of things around the house

and wandering back to see highlights

of the show.

At some dramatic twist to the weigh-in

Jillian Michaels swore.

Big time.

Like the worst one of the bad words.

They beeped it out, but her mouth

made her emotions extremely obvious.

Andy heard drama on the screen

and wandered back to get caught up.

As he was walked into the room he

asked, "What'd she say?"

And without the slightest hesitation,

that dirty word fell out of my mouth.

And Andy fell right to the floor.

It took me just a second to realize what I had just done,

but Andy caught it immediately.

I am not sure

if he has ever laughed that hard.

Needless to say, my face was very red

and my dirty-mouth count now is up to two.

Anyway, I now live out in the country.

With a cat that catches mice and snakes.

And a family of dear, complete with a daddy-buck with antlers, that we see in the morning eating apples that have fallen from our apple tree.

Before you picture a barn, let me show you my current residence:

Not too shabby eh?

The house is new, but even new houses in the country can't avoid the blight on an otherwise perfect season.

Spiders.

The destroyer of all my lovely feelings about autumn.

Not just any spiders, wolf spiders. Don't click that link if you can't handle spiders.

Gah!

Now, I'm not life-or-death afraid of spiders. I'm just grossed out on a normal-person level. Except wolf spiders. I'm probably a little more then normal-person afraid of them.

Screams and everything.

Well, it appears that I will have to overcome that squeamishness if I am to raise two boys in the country.

Today Jack ran up to me with a very proud face and said, "Mama! What that?"

Usually he brings me a crumb or dust bunny to examine. A few times it has been a dead bug, but that has seemed manageable.

I was bracing myself for a fat fly or crusty crane-fly until he came up with a closed fist.

Dread set in.

He had something ALIVE.

He opened his hand, and his entire palm, his sweet, pudgy, baby-soft palm, was covered by a wolf spider.

I screamed.

He dropped it.

I then had the unfortunate task of catching the spider and killing it.

The only thing close enough to grab and still keep my eye on the spider was a piece of mail. Me with a tiny piece of paper against a killer-arachnid! I wildly tossed the envelope on the floor, hoping to have it land on the speedy, ugly guy and then squish him under it, but the spider was so big and fat that even when the envelope landed on it, it was no use, the spider just continued to crawl around - with a piece of mail on its back! What sort of monstrous bug does that?! Eventually I had to get a tiny big braver and press the paper down onto the spider with precision.

GAHHHHAAAAHHHHH!

Precision is difficult to manage when you are imagining a fist-sized spider turning on you, leaping at your face and then devouring your first-born child.

But I finally prevailed.

I wish I could convey my terror and disgust. Even writing it now I feel like I have bugs all over me.

But as soon as the carcass was disposed of I thought, who can I tell?

There is only one person who can fully appreciate the horror of such a moment.

My sister.

I called her and left a trembling message, ending with several reenactments of my shrieks at discovering the black creature on my son (insert gag here).

Jack though that my squealing was hysterical. For the rest of the night he asked me, "Mama, what'd you say?"

When I would forget I would say, "What do you mean?"

He would smile wickedly and say, "About a spider!"

Then it was my job to squawk and watch him laugh at the memory.

He also kept wanting to examine the envelope for signs of guts and leftover spider bits.

Oh boys!

How many more years of boys being interested in bugs do I have left? I'm not sure I can handle it if this becomes a daily habit, which I am afraid of given Jack's delight at my loss of self-control today.

Next time, I will have to try very hard to not make a scene.

Actually, I don't know if that is even possible.

I'll have to try something else.

Can you give a kid a time-out for bringing you gross things?

GAHHHHH!!!! Every time I think about it I shudder.

GAHHHHHH!!!!

This kid is going to give me a run for my money!