Monday, March 9, 2009
Mad as a Hornet
Responding to Camille's facebook update about bad encounters with bees, I decided that further explanation was necessary. Another example of my exemplary parenting, which I'm about to admit to the whole wide virtual world. While driving home yesterday, Camille starts screaming--"Owww, Owww, frick, frick, frick, what the frick." (No, I was not poking her with my taser). Unnerved, I nearly swerve off the road. "A bee stung me." The supportive, trusting parent in me says out loud--Where is the bee? I don't see a bee. It's winter. How would a bee possibly get into the car? The pseudo cursing continues. Part of me is freaked out by the possibility that there may be a bee and it could sting me next. The other part of me is smiling, because the frick, frick pseudo cursing is rather funny. Camille announces that she SEES the bee on the floor of the car. Panic sets in--KILL THE BEE, KILL THE BEE! Now this is the awful part. I actually laugh at my daughter's pain and am secretly thankful that the bee stung her and not me. We arrive home and argue over who is going to kill the bee. You kill the bee. She says--"I'm not killing the bee, you kill the bee." This goes back and forth for a couple of minutes until we both ditch the car and leave the bee, which really is not a bee, but some species of killer wasp or hornet. We wait until Ian gets home and tell him that he has to kill the stinging insect. In the meantime, guilt sets in over my immature parenting and I look for benedryl, advil and aloe (for her, not me). I can only attribute my behavior to a deep-seeded fear, genetically inherited from my biological father, who was convinced that killer bees were going to take over the world (or at least Texas). He even put aluminum foil on his windows to protect himself from invasion.