My Sons, the Plotters

Last Edit December 21, 1998

So I'm sitting in admissions quietly getting my finger pinched, my ear temp'd, and my arm squeezed and am thirsty as sand having purged my body of all things.
My doctor said I would heal faster that way.
My older son, who has been given power of attorney over my life or its termination is drinking water and making sounds of enjoyment.
He says he has always had power over my life.
"Boo!"
"Eeek!"
Seizure.
He acts this out.
He reminds me of the incident of the hairy spider on thread hanging from the second floor balcony.
San Diego has spiders.
Tarantulas and Wolf spiders.
Big, fat hairy things.
Big as mice.
Unnerving.
And clever. "Harry" lived in the garage for months.
He would wait for the door to open and run for cover. We tested this. It was like having a small rat in the garage.
Bug bombs do not kill tarantulas.
Bug bombs kill their food.
Then they leave.
One year my eldest got down and worked with one of these migrating creatures until he could pet it.
Another year we caught one and took it to the back bank. I was running thru the yard in my nightgown - and ran into spider webs. Big spider webs.
I evidently put on quite a show.
I did that once when my eldest was about 2.
I walked out the front door - and right into a big web. We are talking four feet across here. Not some little puny thing.
He was in the car in his seat - I was exiting and locking doors.
I had always tried to refrain from hysterics when around my son - so he would not pick up my phobia.
Did not work.
He was fascinated at my reaction.
The next spider he came across - he mimicked me - shrieked first, then stomped it with his size 6 baby shoe. Big feet. (His nickname was flipper-foot.)
This was different.
This was a fake spider - meant to look real.
Meant to frighten the mother.
My two sons had measured and planned it all out so that the fake beast would land right between my eyes.
This was timed for when I came up the stairs.
Planned.
Precise.
Premeditated.
They knew how I hated spiders.
They were by now very aware of this.
They crouched behind the banisters.
They called me.
"MOM!"
This type of call will cause a mother of two active boys to haul it up the stairs to see what on earth they are doing now.
They had wrapped the plastic bug with thread to make it real.
They had twined the thread around the posts. So well we were still removing it when we moved out.
They had arranged things (with test flights) so that they could flick it as I came up the stairs and it would arc out and come at me.
Right between the eyes.
They did this.
The younger son, not quite so cold blooded, bolted.
"Oh! My God! You're not really going to...."
"Bye!"
And he ran.
It hit. I leaped. In blind panic - three feet in the air. And screamed.
My older son was collapsed in giggles too hard to get up and run.
After he regained control, he figured that he had better check on me. He came down to see if I was OK.
Right.
Scared?
Senseless! I was holding my chest. Checking to see if my heart was still in it.
Planned execution of a parent.
And this is the son who now holds my life and future in his hands.
Fate is cruel.
I'm glad I hid his Christmas present!