“My spider babies all seem to be doing well,” I said to my fiancé last night. I had been watering them and spending some time gazing lovingly at them.
“Yeah,” he said, “I was kind of annoyed at how they were working out.”
“Why?” I asked, wondering if I should move them somewhere safer. Bee has always had a problem with my spider babies. I don’t see why. To me it feels kind of magical that I got nine babies from one plant, and that when they grow up, each might have another nine babies of their own.
“Well, not annoyed,” he said, (he will worry at this point that I’m going to make him sound mean and uncaring, which he absolutely isn’t), “it’s just that you’re so bloody optimistic about things. There’s a long list of things you do that I think are a bit ridiculous and will never work, but you always prove me wrong.”
“Like what?” I asked, imagining him carrying a special notebook around for the purposes of making such lists.
“I don’t know,” he said, “like all of your soups.”
“They are pretty standard soups,” I say. I just think he doesn’t understand the versatility of soup. You really can put anything in it.
“And the spider babies just grow. There’s really no stopping them.”
(They really do. You do the magical maths – this time next year, including the mummy and this first batch of babies, we could have 91 spider plants in the house.)
“Yeah I know,” he says, “and I do love it about you, it’s just a bit frustrating that you’re always so optimistic and always right.”
Hell yes I am.
Gaze in awe at my spider babies: