…Stings Like a Bee

Reading. Looking out over the half crisped half overgrown lawn. Wondering when I’ll work up the energy to get out the mower. My legs and entire being, happily tired after a week of running and tennis. In the back of my mind. Wondering too, how I’ll be feeling on the road tomorrow for a slow, long 14 or so miles.

Back to my reading. Working through the New Yorker. Toward the back, the article Spoiled Rotten: Why do kids run the roost? lights a fire under me.

I roust myself out of the Adirondack chair to look for Max the 11-year-old. Indeed. It’s time for him to learn to mow the lawn! I will not be party to a spoiled child! (Even though I actually do enjoy lawn care. Just not when I’m not so pooped.)

Under protest. The 11-year-old pushes the mower around the yard. I watch from the hammock this disorderly display of undisciplined labor. Able to take no more. I again, roust myself, this time to impart some mowing wisdom.

Full of parental know-how I stride toward my eye rolling son. And fall immediately to the ground as if shot by an arrow in a heap of pain and cussing.

Max is stunned. Even alarmed. To witness his mother in such a state.

Through the swears I manage to pick myself up. Hopping toward the house as Max watches helplessly. I explain. I’ve been stung! I stepped on a bee!

The part of the lawn that is not charred by the heat and the drought is sprinkled with little white clover flowers that bees so love. Thereby, striding barefoot in the clover is not that bright. Especially if your history includes one of severe reactions to stinging insects that have perhaps landed you more than a few times in the ER.

And yet. I don’t fear as much as admire bees. Aren’t they amazing creatures? Organized. Industrious. Tireless. Overcoming the impossible. Able to fly with such big bodies and tiny wings. Sweet stinging little honey-makers.

That was all yesterday. Tim scraped off the stinger with his Visa. I tightly wrapped my instep with ice. Dosed and dozed with Benadryl. Ate ribs for dinner, watched Billy Elliot and went to bed.

Today. A miracle. My foot was not swollen as it would have been in the past. It was almost, pretty much fine. I put on my shoes for a run. After a few miles though, I turned around. It was a little sore and a lot of itchy. Why tempt fate? I’ll run my 14 tomorrow.

How could this be? (Bee?) How did I not have a reaction? Well. Also yesterday. I tapped on the back of my hand between my pinky and ring finger and then went through some more tapping protocols that I thought might help. Also I haven’t eaten grains – no bread, no pasta – in over a year. Maybe? A little energy medicine and primal living to cure a life-long affliction to bee bites? Why not?

Overcoming the impossible. Not just for bees.

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3 thoughts on “…Stings Like a Bee

  1. Do I detect the gossamer presence of karma in this incident, your having Max mow the lawn mostly because you didn’t want to, and getting a nature smackdown in return? Just wondering…

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