The Buzzy, Buzzy Bee

I have a husband. For the most part I try to leave him out of this blog because the Internet is no place to hold a marriage. Also, I’m more likely to write when I’m angry than when I’m happy, so most views that I would post would come off as tragically myopic.

Today, however, I have a story to tell you and it requires his presence.

Bees. I like the concept of bees. They fly from flower to flower and pollinate fruits and vegetables and are instrumental to all life. They make honey, which is pretty good. They are brightly striped which is cool.

In practice though bees and wasps are alarmingly similar in appearance. Especially when you stand 10 feet away and cower. And are probably allergic to wasps.

So, like any sane person, when on Saturday afternoon a bee flew in our back door, I called to Jeff for help and picked up Fiona to better be able to flee the terrible monster. “Hey, Babe, can you get the bee out of the house?”

He sighed, got up from the couch, and began flailing at the bee, while telling it to get out.

“Uhm?” I started, and paused here because once you’ve asked for help, the standard of marriage happiness says that you “Butt-the-heck-out”. If, once you’ve asked for a job to be done you quibble about the hows, you are causing unhappiness.

However, there is a correct method of bee removal from a home and it does not involve a six-foot tall man flailing with an X-Box controller at an object roughly the size of a bean. He performed a dance that would probably be analyzed by anthropologists as being a request to the bee deities to take their small buzzy acolyte and get the frack out of our domicile.  It looked more or less like an octopus trying to signal a plane. It was performed to the tune of a small voice saying in increasingly frantic tones, “A buzzy bee? A buzzy, buzzy bee?!?”

In case you were wondering, the correct method of bee removal is to close all blinds and turn off all lights. Open only the door that you wish the bee to go through. The bee will fly through door, attracted to the light.

He hit the bee.

Fiona was really starting to get upset, “Daddy, the buzzy bee? Is the buzzy bee okay? I play with it! The buzzy bee?”

The bee was only stunned.

I offered him a paper towel so he could relocate it outside.

He managed to get stung.

He then threw a spectacular fit. He screamed. He cussed. He jumped up and down. He yelled in what I assume was wordless rage. (Our daughter comes by her dramatic nature honestly.)

He scared the crap out of Fiona. She started shrieking. She clung to me with both arms around my neck and legs wrapped around my waist.

Finally, I yelled at him to cut it out.  He stopped being a crazy person and I was able to focus on Fiona.  It took about 10 minutes to calm her back down to something not hysterical. And she continued to ask about the buzzy bee and burst into tears. (I’m not entirely certain that she wasn’t partially upset that she didn’t get to keep the bee.)

Eventually, I pulled the stinger out of his finger and settled him on the couch to fume.

Then I turned my attention on Fiona. She was still upset so we snuggled until she wasn’t shuddering when she took a breath. Then we talked. We talked about bees and how they protect themselves when they’re scared. We talked about leaving them alone, but not being afraid of them. We talked about all the good things that bees do.

Then we played. We pretended to get stung. We handled it better than Daddy. We took care of our pretend stings. We pretended to be buzzy bees and chased each other and visited flowers.  We pretended to see bees in the garden and leave them alone.

Then we went and looked at Jeff’s hand. When she saw the sting she burst into tears all over again. So we did all of the talking and pretending again. And again. And again. Until she could talk about it and think about it without crying.

I am pleased to report that my Fiona-Girl did not suffer from nightmares about bees or Daddy. Though, I’m fairly certain that she will be afraid of bees for a while.

I’m a little concerned that we have traumatized our child. Please tell me we’re not the only ones?

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7 thoughts on “The Buzzy, Buzzy Bee

  1. oh, that is a great story…and I think you handled it well. And it might not be a bad thing for her to be a little afraid of bees for awhile. Your little tyke is so curious…I could just picture her wanting to pet and play with them if she wasn’t a little scared of them.

    • She does try to play with bees, and wasps, whenever she sees them, so I’m not entirely sad that she may have a bit of caution now. I just feel bad that it was so scary. It’s a bee forchristsakes!

  2. Great story. I think I traumatize my kids daily, but in all fairness they traumatize me too. 😉 If your dear little girl had been the one stung, I have a feeling she would feel differently about where her compassion would lay regarding the stunned bee and the stung Daddy. It was a fairly traded trauma.

  3. I love that yuo look at the character sketch of the bee and talk about it’s industry and usefulness, especially since I grew up singing a very funny little bee song as a lispy child. But give what she did with the worms….it’s polly best for her to be intimidated by the bee for a bit.

    The song, originally from a program called Music Machine…sung with a very strong lisp…

    Misther Bumble Be ith Humble
    He’th not all puffed up wiff pride
    If you would do asth you should do
    Humble bumbe be inthide

    You never sthee a bee sthinging
    “Look at me, I’m the buthiest bee around”
    He’th got a lot to do, and until he’th thru
    He’s buthing all over towwwwn

    Misther Bumble Be is Humble
    He’s not all puffed up wiff pride
    If you would do asth you should do
    Humble bumbe be inside

    Remember…BEE-Humble.

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