Okay, so I'm guessing we're only a few hours away from being plunged into hurricane-related darkness and Nick-Jr-less misery, so I'm typing as fast as I can to get this entry done and we all nkow nothing goood kan com of thsi. You stay classy, East Coast! (And safe. That too.)
On the opposite end of the weather spectrum, Friday was a beautiful day. Almost unfair, even, that such a perfect fall day was ruined by intrusive thoughts of "I don't trust that tree over there" and "I need to go buy bread and canned goods and booze and a generator-powered TV."
The entire neighborhood was playing outside. The parents milled around and chatted about the weather, packs of little boys tossed up armfuls of dry leaves like confetti, and Ike chased after every toy that did not belong to him because fuck his boring-ass toys, that's why.
I intercepted him during a crazy toddler run towards the street and put him back down on the sidewalk, but about halfway through the process he started screaming. And I mean: SCREAMING. Louder and more indignant-like than a usual "mo-ooo-ooom stop thwarting mah dreeeeamzzz!" whine-fest. This was more like, "mo-ooo-ooom how dare you immunize me against poliooooooo!" screaming.
When I set him down, I realized there was a bee on the back of his sweatshirt. I quickly swiped it off, then smushed that fucker flat on the sidewalk with my shoe of mama-bear justice. Ike continued to howl at the top of his lungs.
Ah, shit, man.
I pulled up the back of his shirt and sure enough, he'd been stung. Twice!
And I realized I did not have the faintest idea of what to do. Three children, zero bee stings. UNTIL NOW. IN A WORLD. WHERE JUSTICE AND INCOMPETENCY MEET. ONE MOTHER. WILL FACE. Etc.
My choices were, basically, to whip out my phone and start Googling, or throw myself on the mercy of the crowd of my neighbors in hopes that someone else knew what to do.
"BEE STINGS! BEE STINGS! WHAT DO YOU DO FOR BEE STINGS!" I started shrieking. "THE BABY HAS BEE STINGS AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M SUPPOSED TO DO!"
It takes a village, y'all.
Two different parents went running towards their doors and back inside.
I thought, maybe, they were going for whatever necessary first aid equipment was necessary, but it turned out they were both going to check Wikipedia.
A mom emerged with an ice pack while a dad ran back out to confirm that yes, the Internet says to put ice on it. And to remove the stinger, if possible.
There was no stinger, just some swelling, but nothing horrific. Ike settled down and stopped crying, and I was instructed to go inside and put some itch stick on the stings, don't worry about getting Noah from the bus stop, we'll get him, the baby is okay the baby is okay poor baby.
But I am telling the story anyway because I can add "bee stings" to the long list of things I have freaked out about unnecessarily, but am now an expert in. Bee stings = ice pack, itch stick, put some wine on it. The more you know, *rainbow jazz hands*, THE END.