PSF: The Thin Mint Mooch

Yes, I am posting a PhotoStory Friday on Saturday. I have my reasons . . .

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The sun . . . it was out. A light wind rustled the trees (the promise of a bud or two dancing in the wind). J and I peeked through the slats on the deck, staring at the deer that had gathered at the foot of the hill behind our house. I wasn't sure if he saw them or not, as they still blended in with the matted brown background, hints of green springing up around them.

We pulled out the bubbles. He laughed as he tried to catch them, then looked up at me as if to say, "Seriously, why should I exhaust myself if you are just going to continue to blow more?" He parked himself right in front of me. Raising his hand to catch them before they even had a chance to savor freedom. I hope he won't become the spoiler of fun. The kid who cocks a suspicious eyebrow as the magician pulls a quarter from behind an ear or detaches a thumb.

I sometimes like being clueless, in awe, enraptured. This is where J may be more like his engineer father . . . but I digress.

The phone rang and I stepped just inside the sliding glass doors off the deck. Within what seemed to be seconds J let out a scream. I had just hung up the phone and turned to see him rushing inside and swatting at his hands.

I knew what had happened in an instant.

They had been hibernating. The beasts. They had been locked in crevices deep in the ground, cracks in the siding. But, the warmth has prodded them awake. There was not the slightest hint of them only moments before. But now. They had attacked my son.

In only an instant I went from a calm, even-tempered, patient, relaxed individual to a raging lunatic with nothing but insecticide on my mind.

Wasp. You. Are. DEAD. Don't even try hiding.

Within only seconds I grabbed an icepack, planted it on J's hand and hunted down the attacker and reduced him to a smear on the bottom of my shoe.

I returned my attention to J who sat rigid in my arms, tears running down his cheeks, screams continuing to come out of his rounded mouth. He looked up at me as if he barely recognized me. Had the murder of the insidious bug done damage to my innocent child?

No.

It was me.

I was still screaming. Ranting. Spewing odd expletives ("flippin' fudge buckets") while damning every flying creature with a stinger to a life roasting in hell fires.

I'd lost it.

J started sucking in breath as I tried to calm him. He wiped at his nose, snot smearing across his face as it mixed with his tears. I hugged him and told him it would all be okay that mommy was right here.

He cried harder.

The next few minutes had me examining every square inch of him. Checking for even a hint of a stinger or where a stinger may have at one time been. I was frantically on the phone to my pediatrician (lunch time), the ER (bring him in), my mother (take him to the ER--"Iwilljumpinmycarthisinstantandtravel300milestocomfortmypoorgrandson"--yeah, that's just what I needed), my husband (voice mail--we won't even go into the message I left . . . not suitable for even an average audience), a friend with a toddler (not home--how dare she?!).

By this time J was calming down. I was no longer screaming. There was a baking soda paste on his hands and his head was resting on my shoulder. Freak mommy stopped freaking out. (I need to add something here. I screamed for at least 5 minutes--as did poor J. I would have thought it would have brought at least a neighbor to my door, maybe even the police. I was so thankful that my screams didn't. But thinking about it later, I am wondering if by chance I am ever attacked by some crazed serial killer if my neighbors will bother coming to my rescue. I'm beginning to wonder . . . ).

A call back. The pediatrician. She was calm. She even laughed as she said, "Those first stings are usually way worse for mom than for baby."

Really?

I had no idea.

For the next hour we sat on the couch. Where I allowed him to mooch Thin Mints while he watched Elmo. Yes, we don't often watch TV, nor do we eat while watching TV (I mean, that's what I'm going to tell him), and we don't mooch mommy's Thin Mints.


But somehow, at that moment, he could have whatever he wanted . . . and with that, psycho mommy took a really deep breath.

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