Spider removal plan

A lifetime of staring at my feet while walking has resulted in a debilitating phobia that has altered my gait in darkened environments: A sort of side shuffle with an arm out-stretched, half running back-defending-the-football style and half Frankenstein-groping-for-a-light-switch style. All in my panicked attempt to avoid spider webs and the dangling inhabitants attached to these sticky structures.

I've been mentally preparing myself for this moment for years but I guess you can never be TRULY prepared...

My September resolution to have my class be completely silent in the hallway was broken by the second week of school when I realized that my standing in the middle of a passage screaming at them was actually much louder than their incessant chatter. When did children lose the ability to whisper? So Step Two was avoidance. We just simply clung to secondary corridors with fewer classrooms to avoid embarrassment and minimize distractions. EXCEPT...one rarely-used hallway that we now trafficked was not illuminated. This delighted the children...both walking in the dark AND seeing Mrs. Mosiman walk like a bobbing-and-weaving crypt-keeper.

My method paid off yesterday, though, when I spotted the silvery strand of a spider in the middle of the hall. Fortunately, we walk flush to the right to support traffic flow and practice for when they eventually become (Prepare for another phobia:) licensed drivers. "Unless you plan on driving in England," I'd bark, "get over to the right!"

I admit that I considered continuing on my way without alerting the sixteen 4th graders to the nearby presence of an acrobatic arachnid. But what if someone else came sauntering, unsuspectingly, down the hallway soon? Plus...every-time I tread down this hall, I'd know he was there...waiting. Mr. Spider had to go.

Using my school lanyard (the first time it's actually been used for something meaningful), I created a horizontal mast above the web. The children stood silent (for two seconds) as they watched the transfer of the strand from ceiling to Mrs. Mosiman's now mummy-extended arms. We all moved as one:  Me, walking as though I were carrying a live bomb. The spider, crawling up his line to my lanyard faster than I could mummy-walk. The children, in a huddled mass of concern (for the spider...not me), tripping up my every stiff step. "Child A," I asked in a calm voice, "would you please go ahead of us and open the door?" Off he raced while another student asked his friend why Mrs. Mosiman's voice was shaking. Learning the spider's soon-to-be destination, Child B became hysterical. "It'll die out there, Mrs. Mosiman," arguing with the passion of Fern trying to save Wilbur from the ax. I would not be deterred. "He'll be fine," I comforted Child B, turning the corner and realizing that the decision to have the door open was utterly stupid as the spider swung dangerously in a way that only years of hula-hoop training could save me. "I'll put him in a nice, warm hole in the brick wall."

Once we hit the outside chill, I was abandoned except for the spider, Child A, and Child B who watched to make sure that I didn't fling his friend to the four winds. Safely cocooned in a crevice in the brick wall (where he was sure to die in minutes and then haunt me...unless his friends and family witnessed my crime and would instead crawl into my sleeping mouth each night for eternity), we re-entered the building. "That was pretty brave," Child A said but his compliment was cut short as I did my best hee-bee/gee-bee dance in the middle of the hall.

Maybe it's time to implement another strategy to avoid this situation that occurs inevitably once every ten to twenty years. I'm thinking about how people slash their way through the thick undergrowth of the jungle. Do you think that carrying a machete in the hall would be considered over-kill?