The flight of the bumblebee

Let me start by saying that I lived to be 38 and have never been stung by a bee. You can tell where this is going, can’t you?

The boy and I came home last night and were making our way up the steps. In the usual slow manner of a two-year-old. I put our bags down on the top of the porch and unlocked the front door. Then I waited for him to climb the two steps to reach me. Which he wasn’t doing.

We have spirea bushes along the walk and they’re filled with buzzing bees. I noticed just the other night that they seem to have a hive under our concrete steps. Still, I’ve never given them a second thought because I just leave them to their business. And I’ve heard that’s what you’re supposed to do with bees; you leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone. Right?

I cautioned Devin not to bother the bees (because two-year-olds don’t know any better), then I reached for his arm to help him up the two stairs. Apparently, that’s a no-no in Bee World, because that @!#*& bee landed on my arm and STUNG ME. Holy cow, man — that hurt! As I realized what was happening, the stupid-ass bee stung me two more times! TWO! So to make up for the 38 years of being stingless, the bee apparently decided I needed a few to make its point.

By the third sting, I was in flailing, whacking mode and I managed to sock one to him/it. He landed on the porch, upside-down, seemingly unconscious or dead.

I was crouched down, gripping my arm and trying not to cry, assuring Devin that, “It’s OK.” Then I started to gather up our bags and usher the boy into the house.

That’s when I saw it. The bee was moving. It was getting up again! That’s when I went from flailing, whacking mode to totally-freaked-out mode. I had a sneaking suspicion that this particular bee was not happy with me at all and had no intention of buzzing off to lick his wounds. He rose into the air and I started screaming at Devin, who was still standing in the same spot, to “GET INSIDE! NOW!” He froze to the spot and I grabbed him and shoved him inside.


Do you, dear reader, get the feeling that this particular bee may have had some sort of psychotic issues? Because I sure had that feeling. When I saw it rise off the porch and come after us, I felt like I was reliving the last scenes of “The Terminator”.

So not only did the bee follow us into the house, it went after my kid. And that’s when I went from afraid to very pissed off. He landed on Devin’s neck and began crawling up the back of his head. All the while I’m looking for a swatting tool and screaming in ferocious anger at this stupid bee: “GET OFF MY KID! NOW! GET OFF! GET OFF!” After accidentally striking Devin with a set of car keys (which, by the way, are useless in swatting bees), I got hold of a nearby road atlas (thanks, Scott, for leaving that in the hallway for the past week!) and went after the sucker.

I got him off of Devin, but not fast enough. That stupid jerk of a bee stung my kid on his hand before the road atlas made contact. He landed on the floor and my shoe landed very forcefully on top of him. And then Dev began crying. A lot.

I felt so bad for him. Not only did it hurt, but he had to witness a panicked, shaken mother battle with a two-inch long flying menace. I’m sure he’s scarred for life. His poor little hand swelled up to twice its size. And my swollen arm still aches more than 24 hours later. Stupid, crazy, @!#*& bee!

Thanks for letting me share that trauma. And wish me bee-free dreams tonight.