Opinion
I’m currently on parental leave, 39 weeks pregnant, and the question I’m asked most by friends and family is: “How are you coping with all the moths?”
It’s a fairly obscure thing to be known for, but even people I haven’t heard from in ages are checking on me given the current infestation of literally millions of migrating moths.
Pregnancy cravings being what they are, I was at the shopping centre earlier, waiting to get on an escalator with a crowd of people in front of me, seemingly oblivious to the absolute horror unfolding above their heads.
Moths. Everywhere. Flapping around the ceiling with no regard for personal space.
I tried to flee by squeezing past the people in front of me. Anyone who has ever seen a woman at 39 weeks pregnant will appreciate the absurdity of this manoeuvre. There is no squeezing past anything at this late stage. Not even a moth.
My fear dates back to the last great moth event in Sydney, sometime around 2013, when WFH hadn’t been invented and I was catching the train into the city every day. I was trapped in a carriage with what felt like hundreds of moths clinging to the windows, ceilings and every available surface. Every other passenger just seemed to be getting on with their commute, except the moths, of course, who had been blown into the trains on their way to the alps.
That’s the thing that concerns me about moths. How can they simultaneously make a 1000-kilometre seasonal migration using celestial navigation but, when they come face-to-face with a human, they lose all sense of direction?
A spider generally runs straight lines. You can see it coming. You can make a plan. Derailed moths operate with the navigational competence of a drunk person on a dodgem car. They flap wildly, ricochet off walls and at any moment can launch themselves directly into your face.
I’ve since discovered my particular affliction has a name: mottephobia. Apparently, it’s often linked to their unpredictable flight patterns, fluttering sounds and dusty, powdery appearance. The fact they’re nocturnal only makes things worse. There’s something particularly unsettling about trying to fall asleep knowing one could be lurking in the shadows, waiting to launch itself at your face.
Of course, humans have managed to develop irrational fears of just about everything. There’s koumpounophobia – a fear of buttons, trypophobia – an aversion to clusters of small holes, and even anatidaephobia – the supposed fear that somewhere, somehow, a duck is watching you.
I suppose that’s the thing about irrational fears. You can understand perfectly well that something poses no real threat and still have your entire nervous system behave as though you’re about to die. Knowing it’s ridiculous doesn’t make it any less terrifying.
In my case, it doesn’t help that my cousin once had a moth burrow into his ear while he was sleeping. Most people have a friend-of-a-friend horror story. I have an actual family member.
I’m fortunate to live with a man who has no fear of moths. Inexplicably, he catches them with his bare hands and gently releases them outside while I stand at a safe distance wondering what I’ll do if our child inherits my irrational fear. I’m sure there are other evolutionary explanations for why we chose each other, but right now it’s the thing I admire about him most.
Our poor dog has also become a casualty of my paranoia. Usually free to wander in and out of the house, Winnie is now subjected to a strict one-in-one-out policy, with me yelling at her to hurry up before a moth slips through the door.
We’ve also taken to sitting in the dark at night to avoid attracting them. A perfectly normal way for two adults to live. And every time I hear the unmistakable thud of one of their thick little bodies hitting the glass, I shudder, then immediately check which side of the window it’s on.
I know bogong moths are extraordinary creatures. I know they’re endangered. I know they travel enormous distances across the country, navigating by the stars, and that the critically endangered mountain pygmy possums depend on them for food.
I genuinely want them to survive. I want the pygmy possums to eat. I support the entire ecological arrangement. I would just prefer they conducted their business away from me. Like, really far away from me. Possibly in some other galaxy.
In a matter of days, I’m due to give birth to my first child. I’m preparing myself for a major life event, sleep deprivation and the enormous responsibility of keeping a tiny human alive. Yet I remain convinced that if a bogong moth somehow makes its way into the birthing suite, I might not even need an epidural.
Aimie Rigas is director of audience growth, publishing at Nine.
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