Yesterday's Outdoor Jamboree was so successful I decided to repeat the event this afternoon when Patrick woke up from his nap. I weeded and Patricked hosed and for about two minutes all was peace and harmony. Then the air was rent by screams and Patrick propelled himself into my arms like a rocket. Like a screaming, sobbing rocket. That he was hurt was obvious but how and where remained a mystery until I suddenly experienced the sensation of being shot in the leg by an elephant gun, twice, and I realized that the excrutiating pain we were both being blinded by was caused by bees. Yellow-jackets, to be specific, and they were attacking us in, well, in droves.
Patrick screamed and I raced into the house, tearing at his clothes when I discovered two bees on his shirt and worried about an unspecified number within. I carried him to our bedroom as I undressed him and was horrified to realize that one of the little bastards had followed us in and was going right for Packy's meaty little thigh. So I slew the bee with one crashing blow of my mighty fist and fled to Steve's office, where we were attacked by ANOTHER one. I wondered, fleetingly, if these were the uber-aggressive "Africanized" bees I had read about and then, even more fleeetingly, if the term "Africanized" is racist or merely geographical in its origins. Smashed second bee into bee hash.
Took Patrick upstairs to his room where we were confronted by, yes, you guessed it, another fucking yellow-jacket, which I sent to the Great Buzzy Beyond via a Boynton board book. Patrick had stopped screaming by this time and was merely whimpering for cream to make it feel better. I peered out from behind his door, expecting a phalanx of bees at this point, but was relieved to find the coast clear and the house bee-free.
I am not ashamed to say that in this Moment of Crisis I freaked right the fuck out and threw Patrick into the car, destination either Walgreens for Benadryl or the emergency room for life-saving measures, as indicated. I lost my head so far as to ask him if he was allergic to bees. Patrick, it appears, is not, thank goodness. He is also, apparently, not troubled by appearing in Walgreens without any pants whatsoever, a fact that I discovered when we started for the antihistimine aisle and Patrick made an off-hand remark about his penis and I turned around to discover, oh! hey! look at that! there it was.
Total Count -
Me: Stung twice; once on the ankle, once on the knee.
Patrick: Stung FIVE times; on face, chest, arm, leg and palm.
Bees: Three dead by my hand, seven dead via Kamikaze, 450 million hale and hearty and just outside the front door.
I called Steve and told him that he would be dedicating himself to eradicating this menance the moment he arrives home. I said I was declaring Bee-had and he said "What?" And I said, "Bee-had." And he said, "What?" And I said, "BEE-HAD" and he said, "The cell phone keeps cutting out, sorry, what did you say?" And I said, "Oh forget it" and another pun died an unworthily ignominious death.
I loathe Nature.
I know I have lured you here under the false pretense of a pregnancy-or-not update. I know that there are few things to rival the suspense of an IVF cycle and I apologize. But I am not able to report today. My regrets. Have a cookie. Check back later.