Momma Has Superpowers

There are the things society in general understands about being a mom:  It's not glamorous, it's rewarding, we all have different kids who need different things, all that, whatever.  But there was one thing that genuinely surprised me, the epiphany came to me during the all-elusive-shower-without-small-people-playing-peekaboo-with-the-curtain.  Mainly because crawling ON the shower curtain was the biggest spider I've ever seen.  (I am prone to exaggeration, but for the purposes of our story just imagine this beast was two inches across, hairy and saliva dripping from his poised fangs.  Yeah.  He was.)

This is why I quit recycling.

Ok, follow me if you will...

On a typical day I will run and cry like the pansy I am in the face of spiders, centipedes, bats and bees.  I've gotten used to earwigs due to all the wet piles of leaves around my house.  Boxelder Bugs?  Childs' play.  But there's just something about the inside of my house that attracts the creepy crawlies that I CAN'T handle.  I scream, and I scream loudly.  Usually my husband, with a deep sigh, a slow shamble, and an exasperated expression will come to my rescue (Imagine his surprise the night it was a bat.  That'll teach him) and squish whatever is threatening my very existence with its menacing presence.

He has ruthless insect-killer written all over his face, right?

But sometimes, once in a rare great while, he's not there.  This is a problem.  When I considered what I would do if cornered with a baby in my arms by some man-eating creature, I'd sweat.  One day, I was forced to find out.

N was a baby, and a little baby at that.  (She was never truly a little baby, but this is neither here nor there.  She'll always be my little baby.)  I had her on the floor, changing her diaper.  For some reason I hadn't grabbed a blanket to put her on, so she was directly on the carpet.  I was happily chattering to the girl who was unamused and waving her arms and legs about her wriggling body.  I'm surprised I noticed it, it blended in so well with the carpet.  But like they seem to do when you're unprepared, this sucker was running at a mile a minute straight towards my precious baby's head.  HER HEAD.  There was no blanket he could crawl under, he was aimed straight for her cheek and I was sure that if he made it to his target he'd bite and surely he was full of neurotoxins that would take a short route straight to N's brain, leaving her paralyzed the rest of her life.  I didn't think.  I just acted.

I smashed that b!*#$.  With my bare hand.

One of these.  They're everywhere in this house.

Now, faced with the prospect of dying a slow death at the mercy of this fresh foe perched on my see-through shower curtain (he was on the other side of it.  But it doesn't matter, because as we all know they will either bite through the barrier that separates them from you, or they will defy the laws of physics and pass right through).  The look on his face said he was out for blood, no doubt seeking revenge for the ruthless slaying of his spider sister.  Or mother.  Or father.

I flashed back to that day, the day I had no fear.  The day I didn't even have time to grab a stray sheet of paper.

When I'm a mom... I have superpowers.

That's right.  When staring down what you fear most of all, if your kids are in the same room you react without thinking, you don't have time to be afraid.  I will use whatever part of my body I have to, in order to eliminate the threat, I will act swiftly and my force will be deadly.  And on the occasions where I do have time to be piss-my-pants scared, I don't show it.

I solemnly swear to rip apart centipedes and grind spiders into the tile in order to protect you.

Take, for example, the wasp-on-the-wash incident.  At that time it was just A; her and I were driving home after work on a muggy June day.  My husband was running late, by an hour, and still had several hours before he'd be on his way home.  I was on the phone with him grumbling about the given situation, parked by the garage in the back, when I spotted it.  It lazily buzzed about the clothesline where the morning's wash had been hung, then turned and whizzed past the car window, doing a sort of loop.  I whispered to my husband, careful to not let A hear me, couldn't you please just come home really quick and help us get into the house? (He worked half an hour away.)  Just quick drive home! I pleaded.  No.  I took a few deep breaths, turned the radio up and pretended we were waiting for this "awesome" Justin Bieber song to be over (I'm sure she was suspicious).  I gained my composure and took my toddler by the hand.  I led her straight through the treacherous path of the flying beast.  Somehow, we made it through unscathed, but I still have flashbacks, nightmares...

I like to imagine this was the same wasp I evaded.  And this really did happen.  Fail.

I'm guessing in the case of larger threats, the bad-ass-mom reflex will simply be stronger.  Luckily I haven't had to find out.  And of course being a superhero in the presence of your children comes with other minor superpowers that aren't as badass (I can tell which one needs the diaper change based on scent even though my sense of smell is typically non existent, I can hold an infant and simultaneously bend down to lift up a toddler without pause but prefer not to lift more than two shopping bags if my husband's arms are empty, I can silence a tantrum before it even begins with a sideways glance but once the tantrums are in motion I hand them off in less time than A takes to start whining in a clothing store), but in those rare life-or-death-by-insect moments...

I'm supermom without spandex and a cape.