Blogs

Suburban bedroom, early a.m. -

A mother sleeps soundly - as soundly as any mother can sleep.

She feels the figure standing over her. She wonders which one it is - there are three, the fourth is still in a crib. She prays it isn't him. If it is, that means a big-boy bed, which he will discover he can get out of.

"Mom," it's one of the big kids. The littles refer to her as "mommy."

She speaks. "Whadda," is all that comes out. Eloquence is reserved for daytime hours.

"I have a headache. Can I sleep with you?"

She fails to see how letting the nine-year-old sleep in her bed will cure her headache. "The bed is broken. It can barely stand the weight it holds now."

"Daddy has been running," the girl is hopeful. "And you're so skinny, Mom." Her attempts at flattery, while smart, are wasted at this early hour.

Finally, the nine-year-old leaves. The suburban hausfrau attempts to return to her dream. There is another figure - if it is the girl, she vows to threaten her with punishment.

"Mom," it is the son, age 10. "Mom, mom, mom."

As she sits up, she realizes both children, who have interrupted her semi-peaceful slumber, have passed by her sleeping husband, their sleeping father, without interrupting him. "What is it?"

"There's a spider." He is obviously upset.

"So, kill it." She is obviously unmoved.

He won't budge. "I hate spiders."

She follows him downstairs, into the bathroom. The linoleum floor peels up in the corner. She notices this even in the dark.

He turns the light on and points, "There it is."

"Get me a shoe." She stares at the immobile arachnid.

"A what?" He only stares.

Maybe this is a dream. Maybe her life is nothing more than an offbeat television show.

"I need something to kill it." Normally she would attempt to save it with the bug saver, a red cup - but it is too early in the morning to save anything. Besides, she saved a spider, possibly the brother or sister to this one, yesterday.

"I'm not giving you my shoe." He stands firm.

She walks around him into the living room. She grabs a Dr. Seuss hoping she remembers to wipe the spider innards off it before the four-year-old sees it.

The woman prays that the spider is still in the sink. If not, the boy will never go back to sleep for the spider will be crawling somewhere in the house. He will grow and grow, plotting his revenge on the people who attempted to exterminate him.

"Mom, kill it." The spider is so still, she wonders if he is alive at all. Maybe he can sense them and is playing dead. Do spiders do that?

Smack - she brings the book down hard on the porcelain. The spider is motionless, and then suddenly, in horror-movie fashion, it rises and scurries, with its misplaced legs dragging behind it, toward the drain. It is attempting to survive - the way all living creatures do. She feels awful. She does the only thing she can. Swalmp, she hits it again - at least twice. The spider is dead. The woman scoops it up with a tissue and throws it in the trash.

"I hate spiders," the boy says as he returns to bed. She's sure it's his way of saying thank you.

Back in her own bed, she glances at the alarm clock - 5 a.m.

She stares at her husband, this man she's had children with. He snores. Soon the alarm will sound, but that's another story about suburbia - at 7 a.m.

- Nicole Johnson

Nicole Johnson received a bachelor's degree in literature from Hofstra University and a master's degree in television/video production from Emerson College. Her short stories have been published in the Wilderness House Literary Review and Grub Street. Currently, she is a stay-at-home mom raising four children, a dog, a cat and a husband. She fear birds, anything with the potential to cause fire, and Disney World. Read her blog here.