That’s Nasty

My daughter and her classmates have been learning about insects. I think they are spending an inordinate amount of time on it, but then, I’m not a teacher and have no idea how long creepy creatures belong in the third grade curriculum. Also, it could be worse: they could be studying rodents, or snakes.

The kids are very enthusiastic, because they get to bring bugs to school. When you find something cool, you capture it, stick it in a jar, and bring it to the classroom. So far, my daughter hasn’t found anything, while her brother was able to proudly carry a cicada into her classroom, even though he’s only four. Dirty show-off, she thinks; and she is bound and determined to find something for herself. Something better, something bigger, and most of all: something nastier.

Fun, fun, fun. Every time I go outside, I see new jars placed here and there, containing handfuls of grass and –supposedly- a bug or two. They must be small bugs, because I can’t ever find them. Undeterred, she keeps catching and releasing; one of these days, she just knows it, she’s going to find the mother lode. The bug-of-bugs, the King-bug, the one for the record books: the one that will put all others to shame.

A giant spider would be cool. There’s only one problem: she doesn’t actually find any, and when eventually a spider finds her, she screams so loud it wakes the whole neighborhood. I imagine the spider shrugs, and thinks to herself that people are stupid. Here she was, all ready to sacrifice herself for the sake of education, and does anyone say thank you? No, ma’am. So the spider scurries back outside, and does not come back.

A few days later, I find something hiding in the Echinacea plants. It’s webby, it’s got a big fat black thing inside; I immediately show it to Isabella, who runs off to get a jar.
“Oh-my-god-I-think-it’s-an-egg-sack!” she yells, and waits for me to stuff the whole thing in the jar. We cover it with a piece of plastic with plenty of breathing holes, Isa immediately catches a cricket for food, and voilà, we have ourselves a fancy-schmancy spider jail. The next morning, the cricket has been sucked dry; like an extra in a crime show, it stares back at me with empty eyes. Also, there are now two giant spiders in the jar.
“Did you add another one?” I ask, but she says no, the first spider must have given birth.
“I don’t think it works that way,” my husband adds; but I swear, I only saw one yesterday.

Maybe it’s a spider miracle. Maybe it’s a new species with fantastic reproductive power. Maybe it’s an alien life form. The cricket could have told us more, if only he had lived. Isabella doesn’t care; she’s just grateful to have two massive spiders. Happily, she carries “her” spider to the car, full of anticipation: I know she’s rehearsing it in her head, how she’ll walk into the class room, how everybody will crowd around her spiders, how she will feel extra special because of what is in that jar.

I really, really hope she doesn’t drop it on the sidewalk.

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