Oh, Daddy-O!

 

“We are like men who have lost their legs; they never grow new ones.” - Alcoholics Anonymous, page 30

When I was a little girl my brother taught me that Daddy Longlegs’ legs regenerate. I didn’t believe him, but to prove it, he took a Daddy Longlegs, pulled its legs off and put it in a mason jar (being sure to punch holes in the lid so it could get air). I watched it all day, checking multiple times, and absolutely nothing happened. The next morning, I woke up and ran downstairs to check it again, and sure enough, it had grown it’s legs back!

I must have been in my 20’s when I was marveling on this miracle one day when it hit me full force that my brother had tricked me. I don’t know how I suddenly knew, but I did, and the sheer ridiculousness of it almost felt like something that might physically knock me over.

I have assumed since then that maybe a leg or two probably regenerates, but not if you pull them all off at the same time. There is simply no way.

Then today, I did further research with my Googloid. And guess what?

“In the daddy longlegs’ case, the lost leg doesn’t grow back. But they persevere. A daddy longlegs that’s missing one, two, or even three legs can recover a surprising degree of mobility by learning to walk differently. They have a 60% probability of losing a leg during their lifetime.” https://www.pbs.org/newshour/amp/science/daddy-longlegs-risk-life-especially-limb-survive

It is said that cats have 9 lives, and I assume that Daddy Longlegs must have 8 legs since they are arachnids. I thus suppose then they have 8 lives. As mere men with only two legs, adapting to one lost leg is arguably more difficult than it is for our arachnid friends. The analogy though makes me think of the “not yets.” Maybe I gave up alcohol after only losing 2 of my legs, where others got further down the road and lost 5 or even 6. And some alcoholics – maybe even most – lose the game entirely and end up in the bottom of a jar with only air holes far above them.

I would have to argue that our appendages do indeed grow back. Maybe not literal appendages – but our minds clear, creativity returns. We become emotionally stable. For some, we no longer need psychiatric drugs. We regain our health – our weight either increases or decreases to be where it should be. Our blood work comes back good. Our blood pressure drops. We can sleep.

Guess what else I learned? A Daddy Longlegs is not a spider. It’s an opilionid.

My mind is blown.    

My Moon

Image credit: Matt Cardy/Getty Images

This very real feeling of inferiority is magnified by his childish sensitivity and it is this state of affairs which generates in him that insatiable, abnormal craving for self-approval and success in the eyes of the world. Still a child, he cries for the moon. And the moon, it seems, won't have him!"

THE LANGUAGE OF THE HEART, p. 102

The night is dark and silent as their car meanders through the Texas Hill Country. She stares out the back window and watches the shapes of the trees against the sky. The air in the car is heavy – thick with anger, resentment, fear. That’s why she sat in the back – to put as much of a buffer between them as possible.

She knows she’s drunk. Her mother told her that and justified his anger, and she supposed there was some truth in that. It was plausible, at least. But she also knew it was something else. He’d made plans when she’d said she was going to stay at her mother’s, and when she changed her mind, it had ruined his plans.

She wondered distractedly, in a mostly detached sort of way who she was, and if they had planned to be in her bed. Their bed. She had come to peace with the idea some while back, in a sick way it even brought her some relief, to let go of at least some of her wifely duties. But for some reason today, she had latched onto it when she saw it was a thorn in his side, and even twisted it a little.

Maybe because she was drunk.

“Look! My moon!” The innocent little excited voice pierced through her dark thoughts.

“That’s everyone’s moon, baby. God made it.” She looked in adoration at her little girl – her big brown hazel eyes full of wonder, her sweet head with only whisps of blonde hair still.

“No, my moon!” she insisted.”

“It’s the whole world’s moon.”

“No, mama. My moon.”

It went that way for almost an hour, gentle banter filling the silence. She knew it probably annoyed him, but she was grateful to have that little voice push back the angry silence to the front side and her dark thoughts to the very edges of her thoughts, where she almost forgot them.

Finally, after she heard a large sigh, she relented. “Okay, baby. It is your moon,” and the baby girl was happy.

And that's how I gave my daughter the moon.