My son’s grandma is the jealous type. If she hears he went to the other grandma’s house she is never all that pleased about it, so we’re sure she sees my little lion every Wednesday to keep the envy at bay.
It started simply enough. Grandma would come over, we’d cook dinner while she played with Leo, showed him the garden, or let him crawl all over her. But quite quickly, grandma, not grandson, got bored. Soon she was scheduling our Wednesday visits at parks, asking what she could bring for a picnic, then last Wednesday she asked if we could all go to vegetable garden together. This sounded like a pretty tame request so we agreed, hoping to avert whatever plan she’d had as ‘back-up.’
We picked her up from work and made our way to the Sustainable Food Center’s teaching garden. Grandma sat in the back with Leo, babbling away, telling him all about her day and listening whenever he chimed in with his own—only slightly less comprehensible—babbling. Once out of the car Grandma strapped Leo on, and with a big grin made her way for the garden.
In it we found tomatoes big as our fists, peppers thin as pencils and curly as party-straws, squash plants mixed up with beans and corn. Leo found a sound garden, and once grandma proferred him a stick, he wacked at a large drum quite happily until he got bored. The SFC garden had a magical oak tree tied with ribbons hearty enough for Leo to tug upon, so he and grandma spent a few minutes seeing if he might prefer life in the trees or possibly the circus, knowing her.
I seized this moment to think, and wandered around the garden and out of earshot of grandma and baby, and let my wife do the same. I approached a hive of bees.
It was walled off, but there was a transparent wall nearest their hive, that a I naively assumed was there to allow curious people such as myself to take a peek at the bees going about their work.
I was quite wrong about this.
I was inspecting the transparent wall. It was made of metal and punched into tiny hexagons. There were two layers, both cut in the hexagon pattern and placed a few centimeters apart so that if I moved my head to the right and left the effect of the two planes of hexagons moving past eachother seemed psychedelic.
Wow, I thought, what a fascinating way to confuse these dumb bees and ensure that a smart human like myself can get so close to their hive.
Yeah so clearly I was wrong about that too.
The buzz from the hive grew louder and I immediately felt something in my beard. I knocked it away. It was black, and angry. Not one of the honeybees, it couldn’t be! Another buzzed at my face and I took a step back.
In that moment I turned and saw my wife crouched down to look at a tomato, my mom held Leo not twenty feet away.
The buzzing grew louder, and I ran like hell.
I ran as fast as I could to get away from this hive of psychedileic black bees, but I didn’t run fast enough. One stung me on the face, near my right eye. And though I had escaped her sisters, my mood was soured.
We went to a restaurant after that and asked for some ice, and then after seeing the prices went to another restaurant with the icepack from the first (I felt guilty about taking ice from our server). This second place had a manager kind of enough to bring my some beesting swabs, which I rubbed upon my face and felt much better.
I have been stung by just about everything with wings, I thought. In the morning, I’d be fine.
This time I was right. I woke up a bit tender, but was quite alright until about one o’clock when the wound began to swell, and swell, and swell, and swell. I asked the school nurse for some aid and she showed me some cream she swore would fix me up just dandy, but she wouldn’t allow me to put it on, as it might get in my eye. Big eh. Instead I popped some anti-histamines and proceeded to watch them not really work.
By morning, people’s descriptions of my face were becoming quite interesting. I was called Quasimodo, a pirate, and (my personal favorite) a dwarf who’d been struck by a hammer in battle.
All fine and good, except I was worried I’d have to go to the doctor.
But what’s a good millennial to do when confronted with such danger? Why, take to social media of course. I posted my disfigurement and waited for the pity to pour in, only to get some welcome advise.
‘Try honey?’ One good friend commented.
‘Put some breast milk on it!’ said another.
Well, given the choice between two of the best foods known to man, I politely asked my wife to squirt a little milk in my eye.
She gave her boobies a little pump and before I could applaud myself for getting her shirt off, there was hot milk squirting in my face. I let it soak in, feeling like a prince from some dark fairy tale, and almost immediately, the itching stopped.
I woke the next day good as new. My delayed reaction welt was cured, and I had my wife’s magic body to thank. There are some out there that I’m sure will say that the venom ran its course, but I think, so long as my wy wife continues to produce milk, I will believe in its miraculous properties, and apply it to all ailments, from belly aches to beestings.
I’ll be in Mexico for a week with baby, Mama, and the other grandma. I’ll have some stories when I’m back.
Thanks for reading!