By Heather Webber / Heather Blake
The other night my daughter came into my bedroom at 1 AM.
Her in a loud whisper: Mum, Mum!
I had instant thoughts of her being ill or that she heard something. That sort of thing.
Her: I need your help.
Me: With what?
Her (voice quivering): There’s a centipede in my room. It touched my foot!
I hopped out of bed, a mama bear ready to defend her cub against the horrible creature. Centipedes and I have a love / hate relationship. They love to sneak into my house, and I hate them. Hate, hate, hate. Hate is a strong word, I know. But it’s not strong enough to express how I feel about centipedes.
We marched into her room (me armed with a good wad of toilet paper) where she promptly crouched on her bed, her eyes wide in terror. I knew the feeling. A centipede was on the loose. Shudder.
Me: Where is it?
Her: It went that way.
“That way” was a generalized direction. That little sucker could be anywhere. I started moving things around and lo and behold, he revealed himself. I quickly dispatched him (flushed), and gave her a hug.
Her: I’m traumatized.
Me: It’ll be okay.
Her: Could you get the spider, too?
She wasn’t kidding. This is when the whole story spilled out in a rush (post traumatic stress?). She’d gotten up to brush her teeth, etc. (she’s a night owl) and opened her bedroom door. A large spider (who’d apparently been lying in wait) rushed in. She dropped a box of art supplies on it and was debating what to do with it when the centipede scurried over her foot.
Now I was traumatized. The impact of the art box did in the spider, but by the next morning, I was looking up pest control companies. Enough is enough. I found a couple of names and am waiting for estimates. But now every time I use my computer, ads for the Orkin man are in the corner. Ads with ants marching have appeared along the bottom of my screen. I. Am. Not. Happy. But so help me, if those ants morph into centipedes, my computer is history.
Any pests bothering you?