Bugging out

The bugs have turned on Parker.
He has been good to the bugs. My son is a bug huntin’ maniac. Loves him some bugs. Given the option between hunting bugs and, well, anything, Parker opts for bugs. He turns over logs. He digs in the dirt. We have even buried milk jugs part ways into the ground for little bug habitat – his bug jugs – so he can check his bugs out whenever he wants.
And then, the other day, the bugs turned. They had never been harmed. Parker was always very careful with them, making sure they had plenty of leaves and dirt and such. Apparently, this message did not get through to all of those in the bug realm.
We were at my parents’ house, and Parker was helping my dad fill a bird feeder. I was inside, trying to get my little nephew to sleep. We were strolling around the downstairs, my heart filled with the warm and soothing feeling of knowing that, there in my arms, was a child who could start crying at any minute and – this is the part that kinda chokes me up – I could simply return him! He sleeps, I’m a hero. He cries – “Do you need Mommy?” Sorry. Tangent.
Anyhow, my nephew and I were chilling out when I heard Parker scream. I am well in tune to my children’s various cries of panic, and usually I can sense when the blood curdling yelp is because someone won’t share the green crayon.
This was not a crayon scream. I made my way to a window and saw Parker flailing his arms, screaming at the top of his lungs. My dad was standing over him swatting the air. I immediately threw my nephew onto the couch and ran to help. (Ha! Just a little joke there to see if my sister’s reading.)
Actually, I contributed by opening the door as Parker ran inside, a horde of concerned folks trailing him.
“What happened?” I asked.
“AHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!” Parker wailed through tears.
“Uh...”
My dad stepped through the door and translated the incoherent scream was apparently an attempt to tell me that a wasp had stung him. He pulled the top off of the bird feeder for my dad and a wasp zipped out from its brand new nest and planted one on Parker’s hand. After some ice and some Benadryl (it’s quite delish on the rocks), the pain began to subside and the swelling on his hand went down. He did convince his sucker aunt that mini Hershey bars would make it feel better, too. Well played, Parker, well played.
So the next day, the sting was behind us. My wife and kids were swimming, and I was inside. I noticed a rather big commotion and everyone sprinting to get out of the pool. “AHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!” I heard Parker scream. Uh-oh.
This time, a yellow jacket had zipped down and zapped him on his thumb. And, as anyone who has ever come in contact with them knows, yellow jackets were created in a dark cosmic vortex where pure evil mated with burning hatred and the offspring grew wings, a stinger and an incredibly bad disposition.
For what it’s worth, for my daughter Allie, who has never been a huge fan of the creepy crawlies, this pretty much sealed the deal on her stance. That stance, of course, is that bugs live under logs and are perfectly fine there. It didn’t help matters that at the start of the weekend, we were at my parents’ house and there was a great big click beetle in a jar. Click beetles are these really cool beetles that, well, click. They snap their body when you hold them, and they’ll flip over. I was trying to get Allie to hold it, and she was a little tentative. “It won’t hurt you. I promise. Look, even Grandma will hold it.”
My mother shot me a rather nasty look, but extended her hand regardless, knowing I had committed her to this little life lesson for Allie. About the time the click beetle hit my mom’s hand, we learned that the normally kind click beetle has pincers and, when they opt to use them, can draw blood. Grandma was not too happy about having a click beetle attached to her hand or the blood now dripping down. I also found that laughing hysterically does not, in fact, make a beetle let go of human flesh.
But back to The Dude. Parker is still, amazingly, a big fan of bugs. He’s not going to let a couple of stings slow him down. In fact, he even told us that he still likes all bugs, but just doesn’t want to touch the “pokey ones.” I think that’s fair enough. We’ll keep up our bug hunts and just make sure we avoid pokey ones. And probably click beetles.