I got up in the night to go to the bathroom.  Even in the dark . . . and without my glasses . . . I saw a huge fuzzy blur on the floor.  It didn’t move.  Neither did I.  But it was right where I needed to be, and I wasn’t going to risk getting closer to something that might be alive.  It was at least a “4-tissue” whatever, so I pulled four from the box on the sink counter, and, trying not to think about it, crushed and disposed of it.

This morning I looked in the wastebasket to be sure I hadn’t thrown out something innocuous that had just fallen on the floor.  Yes, it had been a centipede.

Mornings this time of year they often appear in that bathroom.  Usually I notice one scrambling desperately around the bathtub just when I’m ready to step in.  They are unable to climb the slippery walls of the tub and so get caught there.

In her youth Rebecca used this bathroom and experienced the same problem.  Capable as she is in every other area,  she was incapable of handling the situation on her own.  “Daddy!” she’d shriek.  “There’s a 3-tissue one in here!”  And Ted would come running and take care of it for her.   I wonder how he would have responded if I had cried out in the night, “Ted!  There’s a 4-tissue one in here!”

Spiders aren’t all scary and bad.  I know a daddy-long-legs that I’m particularly fond of.  He lives in Pierce’s pocket, I think, because he often appears out of nowhere to join his play.  This spider likes to ride in toy cars and in make-shift boats in the kitchen sink.

Wednesday Ted and I went to see Gabby in a band concert.  I had the pleasure of holding Pierce on my lap.  Partway through one of the songs, the spider appeared and stood on Pierce’s left hand, which was held palm-up to make a platform and then raised high enough so the daddy-long-legs (made by two fingers of his right hand) could see Gabby playing her flute.  It was worth coming out to see.  She did a fine job.