Of Bee Stings and Cars

Monday afternoon while I was sitting in my office, the phone rang. I jumped. I almost always do. For pete's sake, I write all day, no one ever CALLS me. 

I have call display, which I love, because it allows me to actually act like a writer too and ignore phone calls if I don't recognize the caller. This one only comes up with a number, and I frown and think .... where have I seen that before? And just before it goes to voicemail, I remember. Oh Yeah. That's the DAYCARE.

Yeah, awesome on the not-answering-phone thing. 

The daycare only calls when the kiddo is sick or something, so of course I lunge for the phone. The first thing they say is "It's not an emergency", which is nice, but then the second thing they say is "But we think he's been stung by a wasp."

You think??

Apparently about twenty minutes earlier my son, who had been happily playing in the daycare garden, came over to one of the grown ups and said "A bee landed on me, and I didn't like it!" He was holding out his hand, and there were tears in his eyes, as though he was quite upset, but he was neither crying tears nor wailing, nor were there any marks on his hand, so they comforted him and he went on his way.

Twenty minutes later they noticed his hand was swelling up. And so they called, because they thought they'd better see if we had any allergy problems with wasps.

We don't, thankfully. But I am of course pretty confused. How can he ALMOST be stung by a wasp?? Because you know, the only two times I've been stung by such an insect it hurts like a motherf*cker. And I'm an adult.

Anyway I head off to the daycare, glad of an excuse to leave work early, if only by half an hour. I arrive there and it is clear that his hand is swelling, and impressively so -- he has no knuckles on the offending finger, and the swelling is slowing going down his hand. He isn't too troubled by it, but he's being kept close to the daycare ladies, and when he sees me he whimpers a little bit. It's clear he's not happy, but he's far from screaming blue murder, too.

So we head home -- what else to do? And he's tired and droopy and a little freaked out by the events of the day. He's clingy and sad, and talks a lot about how the "bee" landed on him and how much he didn't like it. How he got a sting, or a bug bite, or something. I half-heartedly look for some children's Benadryl, but I don't see much point in it unless the swelling gets worse, and it isn't.

So as a consolation for having a tough day, though, I sit down with him on the couch and put on his favourite movie. Not just a short show, a WHOLE MOVIE. Cars, because he adores it and we think it's appropriate for children and of course more importantly, not annoying enough to push parents OVER THE EDGE. And he's entranced. I even -- perhaps not my best judgement as a parent -- allow him to sit on the couch and eat his dinner while watching. And he watches the whole show, even though it goes past his bedtime. The swelling, I should add, is, two hours later, almost non-existent. The next morning there is no evidence whatsoever of any stinging at all. 

Wednesday afternoon I pick him up at the daycare, and he's been having a great time. He laughs and giggles and wants to be picked up. As we walk to the car, he pretends that his finger is a bee, and buzzes me. 

"Bzzzzz" as the bee goes over my head and across my cheek and into my ear. "Bzzzzzz!" We make a game of it, me reacting in mock horror and him buzzing madly. "Sting!" he says finally. I pretend to be sad. "Oh no! A bee stung me!" This happens over and over until he then says.

"And now we get to go home, and watch Cars! Because that's how it works."