Little Miss Muffet

The other day we were walking through our back gate when Caroline said, “Oh Mama! Look at that spider!”

I looked in the direction she was pointing but didn’t see anything. And since it was 152 degrees outside I said, “Let’s get inside before we spontaneously combust.”

(I didn’t really say that, but I guarantee I thought it)

After a few minutes of being inside, she said, “Will you please go back outside with me and look at that spider?” I agreed, not because I am an arachnologist but because I love my child and, for some inexplicable reason, seeing any member of the phylum arthropoda makes her supremely happy.

We walked around to the sideyard and she began to point and yell, “THERE HE IS! THERE HE IS!”

“Where? I don’t see him.”

(How do we know it’s a him?)

“RIGHT THERE, MAMA! RIGHT THERE!”

“Where? I still don’t see him.”

And then I saw him.

Clearly, I need to make an appointment to see the optometrist because the spider was approximately the size of my head. Or would, at the very least, fit in the palm of my hand. Whatever. The point is he was VERY LARGE.

I wonder if Caroline could take him out with her new pink .22? It would be like big game hunting in her very own yard.

By the way, for those of you who wondered where you could find your very own pink .22, I have to let you know that it was a custom job done by P. It’s a special daddy that will stencil a purple star and some hot pink camo on a weapon for his hunting buddy.