1 Mother 2 Another

As part of our Staycation last week, the
family went to a nearby wildlife preserve where you can ride an
open bus through the land – a sort of mini-safari, if you
will. We’d gotten on the bus and were sitting waiting for the
tour to start when I noticed that there was something on my wrist
– it felt like a gnat or something, right under the sleeve of
my jeans jacket. I absentmindedly brushed it, and then felt an
intense pain.


Which was the moment I realized it was a bee.

Now, I have been stung by a bee before
– as a child, I have a vivid memory of a summertime bee
sting. Not the actual sting, but the stressful moments and hours
afterwards. I’m not allergic or anything, but I do remember
freaking out and feeling horrible pain for quite a long time. This
memory has stayed with me, which is why when I see a bee I calmly
but quickly move away from them, taking care not to accidently hit
– and thus anger – the bee as I wave them away.


So when I realized that 1) it was a bee; 2) I was stung; and 3) it
was still sitting on my wrist, I wanted to jump up and scream and
have a lovely hissy fit. But I am a mommy now, and was extremely
aware of my five-year-old sitting next to me with growing concern.


“Mommy, what is it?” Maddie asked after I yelped from
the sting.


Suck it up, Jen. You are the Mommy now.


“Nothing to worry about, honey,” I said calmly.
“I just got stung by a bee and it’s sitting on my
wrist, but it’s ok.”


At which point the bee made a liar out of me and flew off my wrist
and onto my child’s pants leg.


Maddie looked at me, trying to judge whether she should be
terrified or mildly concerned. My excellent acting skills must have
reassured her, because she simply sat there. “Mommy, what
should I do?”


I moved slowly, deliberately handing my things to Brian and
speaking calmly. “No worries, honey. Mommy is just going to
pick the bee up and get him off you. It’s ok.”


And that’s what I did. I gently picked him up and moved him
out, marveling at how matter-of-factly I softly picked up the
mother $#@% who had just stung me.


Now, I know what you’re thinking: bees can only sting once.
As they sting, their tail gets left in the sucker’s arm and
they trail off to die a relatively quick death. Yeah, I remembered
that. Just not right away, so I still get Super Mommy points for
moving that thing. ‘Cause I didn’t remember at the
time.


No, the point at which I remembered was when I was staring at the
rapidly rising welt on my hand, rubbed it, and felt a much more
excruciating pain radiate out all over my hand. Oh, yeah, the
stinger was still in there.


Which is how my five-year-old came to watch Mommy calmly
–dare I say nonchalantly – fish out the stinger,
smiling and chatting the whole time. Sure, that stinger hurt like a
mother $#@#% as I dug around getting it out; every time I missed it
just released more venom. Or whatever. But I finally got that thing
and felt an immediate cessation of the pain.


I sat back in triumph and allowed Maddie to gawk at my war wound,
touching it in fascination and asking all kinds of questions.
“So do you mean that poor bee will die now?”


I certainly hoped so.


Sure, it’s a small triumph. Sure, I was seconds away from
reverting to a six-year-old and freaking out when it happened. But
I remembered just in time – I’m the Mommy now, and
Mommies don’t do that.


One small step for this mommy, one large step for Mommykind.