Spiders... Er, for the pedants, Arachnids. I hate them. All of them. No, it's worse than that. I despise and fear them. Too many legs. Too many eyeballs. Too many sharp, drooly, growling gaping gnashing...

Sorry. Where was I? Ah, yes, spiders...

It was cold in the house this morning, so I decided to change Wee Babe from her dressing gown to day clothes before sitting her up at the table for breakfast. Somewhere in the middle of our ritual sock tug-o-war, she gazed up at the vaulted ceilings of our den, and said, "Oh, a bug, Mummy! See that bug?" Her chubby hand curled, pudgy index finger extended, and she indicated a spot directly above me.

And I, the plumb fool that I am, had to look.

Up.

There.

Holy criminy. Well, Haysoos Come Kiss a Moose. It was so large, and so far above me, that I was unable to discern whether it was a dreaded Arachnid-monster, or a wasp (which, really, is just as horrible when you're allergic). And, lord, had it fallen, it surely would have landed on me and crushed me... Yes, it was that big.

Okay, almost that big. But still.

"Uhhh..." I stammered. "I think that's a spider, Babe." I grabbed up my child and flew with her across the room, eyes never leaving the hulking blob perched on my ceiling.

"Spider! Itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the water spout..." she chimed.

"No, Lovely, that's no Itsy-bitsy by any stretch of the imagination, nor is it some benevolent fairy-tale critter come to life from one of your Litttle Golden Books. That, my dear, is a spider, plain and simple."

She regarded it thoughtfully for a moment. "I think it's a butterfly," she told me in a very matter-of-fact tone.

I had to laugh. A butterfly. Well, yes, in the dim light, long shadows, sure, it looked a little like a butterfly.

But it wasn't.

Upon further investigation, facilitated by much moving of furniture and balancing upon wobbly chair, I determined that it was, indeed, a fat, hairy, too much leggedy, body the size of my thumb pad, I'm gonna fall off this chair, oh-my-god-it's-a spider.

Yes, I do believe that is the scientific name.

So, I did what any arachnophobic Mum might: I hurled the TV Guide at it. And screamed. And hurled, screamed, hurled.

I'm a lousy shot.

Finally, I had him. He'd crawled toward the wall, and sat in the joint where it met the ceiling, staring at me, venom dripping, tongue darting out to lick his...

Uhm, gage, dear? Spiders neither have tongues, nor lips.

Oh, sorry. Where was I? Ah, yes, right where I wanted him...

In a flash of brilliance, I fetched the cobweb catcher (funny-looking fuzzball thing on the end of an extendable pole, typically used to rid vaulted ceilings of cobwebs that tend to accumulate in the corners and around gas-heat vents). I clambered up on the arm of the wingback, took aim, and

When he landed, the house shook.

In an instant, I was upon him. "Turkey-butt," I snarled under my breath at the stunned beastie.

"Funny Mummy!" Babe giggled and applauded my valiant efforts at having felled my opponent. "Go 'way, naughty buggy!"

Yes, please. Go 'way.

Of course, I walked around the rest of the day checking the ceiling of every room before entering.