This morning, I let Kate sleep in, while I tended Saylor and the farm.
I put the little boy in his swing, and proceeded to feed each animal, giving him a good push in between each task.
Little did I know, spring’s balmy air had led a family of dirty waspies to build their home inside the swingset frame.
Nearly finished with the chores, I approached the Bubby to swing him again, and noticed him swinging his little arms at something and kind of scowling. I saw something buzzing around him. It flew off, and I moved to take him out of the swing.
Then I saw it.
It had stung him.
On the eye.
He rubbed his eye and began crying, so I took him inside to receive the comfort that only mommies can give. They snuggled. I went back outside, flooded with guilt.
Later, I noticed Ozark attempting to destroy Saylor’s swing (as he does with everything), so I went and unhooked it from the frame. Curious about where those wasps had come from, I banged on the frame a bit.
Out flew multiple stinging fiends.
I backed away, but not quickly enough.
He got me, right on the elbow.
Now, somehow, I feel better. Does that make me pathological?
Gotta go find that can of wasp spray. Does anybody really pronounce all the consonants in those two words: “wasp spray”?