When I was growing up, my little sister was deathly afraid of spiders. In fact, she refused to sleep in her own room for at least a year because she imagined that it was full of spiders. Even so, my parents never killed a single spider. When my sister screamed her spider alarm, the drill was always the same. My mom or dad would come with a cup, scoop up the spider, and gently deposit it outside. My sister was happy, the spider was happy.
As a result of this touchy feely upbringing, I have always loved spiders, and I've tried to pass this love on to my children. In general, all three have accepted it. They like when I hold them up to watch a spider weaving its web or wrapping up a fly, but I have to admit that they all still squeal in fear if even the smallest spider surprizes them in the house.
Two days ago, though, I had to have a talk with them about black widows. Alison had heard the talk before, but Kate and Henry hadn't, so it was time. Black widows tend to pop from time to time below the side panelling of our house along the back patio, an area where the kids spend an awful lot of time. I noticed one on Monday night, so I took all three kids outside on Tuesday afternoon to show them what it looked like, explain the danger, and make it clear that they should call me immediately whenever they saw one.
This afternoon I realized that a lifetime of spider love lessons clearly outweighs a two-minute black widow warning. While playing on the patio with Henry, Kate started singing a song about the spider with the red hourglass on its abdomen. I copied it down for posterity. Enjoy.
Oh, black widow,
Don't climb on the wall.
Oh, black widow,
Don't climb on the windows.
Oh, black widow,
Don't sleep on the table.
Oh, black widow, oh black widow!
Don't stand on the table because you're too small.
Oh, black widow!
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