This afternoon while Miriam was napping, Rachel was playing in the backyard with her friend Emily. Somehow they had gotten a glue stick outside. They were trying to make a telescope. Anyway...
Rachel started screaming and then ran inside the house.
"I'm just going inside without you!" she screamed. "Whatever you do, stay outside!"
I rushed to see what was going on.
"There's a bee in my pocket!" Rachel wailed. "And it's all Emily's fault!"
"What?! How is that Emily's fault?"
"I just asked her to hold the glue stick and she said no and then a bee flew into my pocket!"
Yeah. That makes sense.
I'm glad we got that cleared up.
Anyway, I checked her pocket and there was indeed a bee inside, crawling around, looking slightly confused and perhaps a little bit angry. I ushered Rachel outside and carefully peeled the dress off of her and set it on a chair—I didn't want to risk shooing an angry bee out of her pocket when she was busy screaming her head off. Then we played inside.
Emily tried to start a game where a wolf was in the kitchen chasing them. Rachel thought this was the worst game ever. She hates wolves. She has nightmares about them—and we live close to the mountains when we're walking and it starts to get dark or she can see the moon or anything she starts to get really nervous. When Emily said a wolf was in the kitchen, Rachel assumed that Emily was teasing her and got really angry. She wouldn't play with Emily after this at all and was, frankly, quite rude to her, so we ended up just walking Emily home.
Then Miriam got up from her nap and the girls started playing "hide from the tiger in the kitchen." Apparently that game is okay. Even though there are 5000 tigers in captivity in the USA and earlier this month there were tigers prowling around Zainsville, Ohio, after their keeper set the animals in his sanctuary free and then offed himself. Wolves aren't all that common here, though I suppose they are still a worry. But certainly not in our kitchen.
Dogs, on the other hand, might be a worry.
Our back fence is falling over—one section has completely torn away from the rest of the fence. Tonight when we were having dinner we needed an extra seat at the table. Karen asked Andrew to go get a stool from the table set on the back deck. He opened the back door and was rushed at by our neighbour's two huge dogs. Mostly they just wanted to lick his face off, but it still startled him and he closed the door before they could come into the house.
Oddly enough, the dogs hadn't come through the downed fence. Instead they had broken a hole in another part of the fence.
They went back into their own yard eventually and a stool came inside the house (though I think it was Patrick who brought it in). Rachel's dress (with the bee in the pocket) also made it into the house. I had asked Andrew to take care of it because I didn't know if it had died or not and didn't want to risk getting stung—last time I got stung my arm doubled in size for over a week!—and I didn't want to smash it inside Rachel's pocket.
He tipped it into the toilet and flushed it away.
Later, Miriam was walking out of the bathroom and dropped a ball on her foot and freaked out because she thought she got stung by the bee in the hallway—Rachel's dress was sitting in the hallway but the bee had already been removed from the pocket.
She screamed and howled and when I came to check on her she clawed her way into my arms and lifted up her legs in pain.
"Legs!" she wailed, "Owie! Owie! Owie! Legs! Owie!"
"Something's wrong!" I yelled (because Miriam is not the type of child to scream uncontrollably) and Karen and Andrew both came running. "I don't know if she stepped on something—maybe the bee's stinger fell out and she stepped on it!"
They checked her legs and feet while I tried to hold her still but they couldn't find anything wrong.
Finally Rachel said, "What's wrong? She just dropped the ball on her foot."
"Bee! Bee!" Miriam shrieked, gasping for breath.
"The bee got flushed down the toilet, stinger and all," Andrew assured everyone. "I flipped it straight out of the pocket into the toilet. There's no way she could have stepped on it!"
"Bee...flushed down toilet?" Miriam hiccuped, suddenly quiet and still.
"Yes. The bee is gone."
"Oh," she giggled sheepishly.
Turns out she really just dropped the ball on her foot. She was merely psychologically prepared to encounter a bee. Or something.
It must have been all the time we spent talking about bees this evening. First, Rachel's bee-in-the-pocket experience, and then my mom told us about how she and Auntie Judy drove through a huge swarm of bees on their way home from California this past weekend—a semi-truck flipped over and spilled its cargo (which just happened to be beehives) right by St. George. There were blinking signs up by the time my mom and aunt drove past, warning drivers of a swarm of bees and telling them to roll up their windows. Millions of bees were buzzing around.
Fortunately for Rachel there was only one bee in her pocket!
Rachel started screaming and then ran inside the house.
"I'm just going inside without you!" she screamed. "Whatever you do, stay outside!"
I rushed to see what was going on.
"There's a bee in my pocket!" Rachel wailed. "And it's all Emily's fault!"
"What?! How is that Emily's fault?"
"I just asked her to hold the glue stick and she said no and then a bee flew into my pocket!"
Yeah. That makes sense.
I'm glad we got that cleared up.
Anyway, I checked her pocket and there was indeed a bee inside, crawling around, looking slightly confused and perhaps a little bit angry. I ushered Rachel outside and carefully peeled the dress off of her and set it on a chair—I didn't want to risk shooing an angry bee out of her pocket when she was busy screaming her head off. Then we played inside.
Emily tried to start a game where a wolf was in the kitchen chasing them. Rachel thought this was the worst game ever. She hates wolves. She has nightmares about them—and we live close to the mountains when we're walking and it starts to get dark or she can see the moon or anything she starts to get really nervous. When Emily said a wolf was in the kitchen, Rachel assumed that Emily was teasing her and got really angry. She wouldn't play with Emily after this at all and was, frankly, quite rude to her, so we ended up just walking Emily home.
Then Miriam got up from her nap and the girls started playing "hide from the tiger in the kitchen." Apparently that game is okay. Even though there are 5000 tigers in captivity in the USA and earlier this month there were tigers prowling around Zainsville, Ohio, after their keeper set the animals in his sanctuary free and then offed himself. Wolves aren't all that common here, though I suppose they are still a worry. But certainly not in our kitchen.
Dogs, on the other hand, might be a worry.
Our back fence is falling over—one section has completely torn away from the rest of the fence. Tonight when we were having dinner we needed an extra seat at the table. Karen asked Andrew to go get a stool from the table set on the back deck. He opened the back door and was rushed at by our neighbour's two huge dogs. Mostly they just wanted to lick his face off, but it still startled him and he closed the door before they could come into the house.
Oddly enough, the dogs hadn't come through the downed fence. Instead they had broken a hole in another part of the fence.
They went back into their own yard eventually and a stool came inside the house (though I think it was Patrick who brought it in). Rachel's dress (with the bee in the pocket) also made it into the house. I had asked Andrew to take care of it because I didn't know if it had died or not and didn't want to risk getting stung—last time I got stung my arm doubled in size for over a week!—and I didn't want to smash it inside Rachel's pocket.
He tipped it into the toilet and flushed it away.
Later, Miriam was walking out of the bathroom and dropped a ball on her foot and freaked out because she thought she got stung by the bee in the hallway—Rachel's dress was sitting in the hallway but the bee had already been removed from the pocket.
She screamed and howled and when I came to check on her she clawed her way into my arms and lifted up her legs in pain.
"Legs!" she wailed, "Owie! Owie! Owie! Legs! Owie!"
"Something's wrong!" I yelled (because Miriam is not the type of child to scream uncontrollably) and Karen and Andrew both came running. "I don't know if she stepped on something—maybe the bee's stinger fell out and she stepped on it!"
They checked her legs and feet while I tried to hold her still but they couldn't find anything wrong.
Finally Rachel said, "What's wrong? She just dropped the ball on her foot."
"Bee! Bee!" Miriam shrieked, gasping for breath.
"The bee got flushed down the toilet, stinger and all," Andrew assured everyone. "I flipped it straight out of the pocket into the toilet. There's no way she could have stepped on it!"
"Bee...flushed down toilet?" Miriam hiccuped, suddenly quiet and still.
"Yes. The bee is gone."
"Oh," she giggled sheepishly.
Turns out she really just dropped the ball on her foot. She was merely psychologically prepared to encounter a bee. Or something.
It must have been all the time we spent talking about bees this evening. First, Rachel's bee-in-the-pocket experience, and then my mom told us about how she and Auntie Judy drove through a huge swarm of bees on their way home from California this past weekend—a semi-truck flipped over and spilled its cargo (which just happened to be beehives) right by St. George. There were blinking signs up by the time my mom and aunt drove past, warning drivers of a swarm of bees and telling them to roll up their windows. Millions of bees were buzzing around.
Fortunately for Rachel there was only one bee in her pocket!
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