Spiders and beetles and slugs, oh my! I often get freaked-out reactions when I share photos of insects and other creepy crawlies, and it's a shame. Bugs present a window into some pretty cool science, and I suspect that being a bug-lover is also a good exercise in challenging first impressions and slowing down enough to watch, wait, and learn. (One trend that points in the direction of people being all about the first impressions when it comes to bugs: ladybugs and butterflies are considered less icky than other bugs, and bugphobes will often let those two walk all over them, but not other flying insects or beetles. Hmmm.)
The first time I saw a spider cricket, I think a rough representation of my reaction would be OMG YIKES WHAT THE HELL IS THAT THING?!?!? They're freaky. They look like some deformed science experiment gone wrong. Now I live in a house that's full of 'em, and I know they're not harmful, and besides, I don't want my kids growing up seeing me freak out over innocent arthropods. Still, it's disconcerting when one of them jumps in your direction. I'll admit, I don't want to touch them, and when I catch them, it's with a bug jar and lid, not with my bare hands.
Reese, however, is a lover of small crawly things, and adopts "pet" bugs now and then, which usually only remain in captivity for a few minutes before he lets them go. He's amazingly gentle, yet firm: he picks them up and handles them decisively, but the bugs never seem to be in any danger from him. It's an impressive aspect of a child who can also be full of uncontrolled, explosive energy. Bugs seem to center him.
So it came as no surprise the other day when I heard, "Mom, I caught a spider cricket!" It wasn't his first cricket, not by a long shot.
"How did you catch it?"
"In my hands."
"Where is it?"
"Right here."
(Oh. Um. Keep those hands closed, ok? I don't want it jumping on me.)
Out loud: "Oh, is it jumpy? Is it dying? It's hard to catch the jumpy ones."
"It's not dying, he just likes me."
(Translation: it's probably near the end of its life if it's not jumping.)
He showed me the cricket, let it crawl over his hands, up his arms, onto his shoulders. It got under him, but somehow did not get crushed. We found it on his backside. He scooped it back up in his hands.
Then he offered it to me.
Oh, no. No, no, no. Here's where I'm a bug hypocrite: those things are creepy. I don't wanna handle them!
But the thing is, here's my five-year-old handling it like it's the sweetest, tiniest puppy in the world. He's talking to the spider cricket, treating it like a welcomed guest. I know, intellectually, that this thing will not harm me. I want to be as unafraid as he is of this creepy thing that doesn't deserve the fear and loathing I hold for it.
So I reach out.
And I take the spider cricket.
And it's really not bad at all. It barely even tickles. It's harmless. I can do this. What have I been afraid of?
Eventually Reese asked to have the cricket back, and he and Xander set about building a Duplo house for it. The cricket watched the construction from the safety of Reese's cupped hand.
"Let's show him around," Reese said, and proceeded to take the cricket on a tour of the neighborhood.
The tour mainly consisted of showing the cricket Reese's collection of glow-in-the-dark bats and an old airplane that used to belong to Reese's dad. The cricket must have been impressed to the point of silence, since it didn't say anything. It did, however, consent to take a ride on the plane:
(Crickets ride on the underside of planes, naturally. This is why you cannot see it. It was a short flight and the cricket seemed to enjoy it immensely, by which I mean it did not bail out, so the trip must not have been all that bad.)
Having seen all that the room had to offer and realizing that construction on the new guest house would be slow at best, the cricket went for a walk under the Lego table, and then... vanished.
The next day, I put a pair of flats on and my right toe encounters something in the tip of the shoe. I slip my foot back out, tilt the shoe, and OMGTHERESASPIDER. I shriek. Oh, wait, it's a spider cricket. Probably Reese's dear little spider cricket.
But it hops and I react skittishly, bat it away from my closet so that it won't hide in there again, and nearly kill it. Then I scoop it up with a tissue and take it outside, where Reese greets it with delight and assures me that it absolutely is the same cricket.
As if he can tell.
Well, maybe he can.
And as for me, I'm working on it.
