The Trouble with Bees

Last evening, following a full first day of summer, proved to be the setting for an unanticipated life lesson about bees.  The Dreamer and the Caveman were outside with the boy next door, engaging in a series of activities in hopes of curing their end-of-the-day case of fatigue and boredom. 

The three invented game that they entitled, "flying cats", and it consisted of throwing stuffed animal cats into the air, all the while, hollering at the top of their lungs.  Although this idea held their attention and enthralled them to no end, unfortunately, it was quickly brought to a halt as Neighbor Boy's hurled ball of stuffed feline, named Carlos, soared to a resting place on the roof of the house adjacent to the driveway in which they were playing their little game.  Following the customary amount of griping, whining, and begging for a parental figure to fetch the lost toy from its rooftop observatory, Mister dragged out the extension ladder, made the ascent, collected Carlos, and returned him safely to the arms of his very grateful and humbled owner.

With the end of "flying cats" came the beginning of a new and improved game complete with risk and danger! The three ran to the sidewalk path and positioned themselves directly in front of a flowerbed that was home to a family of carpenter bees.  As the Dreamer sat quietly to the side, the Caveman and Neighbor Boy began taunting the bees. They dramatically waved their arms, yelled war cries, wielded sticks as choice munitions, and perpetually harassed the poor carpenter bee until it became so enraged that it flitted over to the Dreamer, who, naturally, was daydreaming unawares; and it stung her fiercely on the scalp!  

Needless to say, the Caveman and Neighbor Boy swiftly fled the scene with guilty expressions, and I was left to tend to the innocent victim, now a sobbing mess of a lump leaning against my body. We went inside for the evening, applied a baking soda and water salve to the site of the sting (which took more than a moment to locate within the tangle of 6 year old hair), dosed the victim with a liquid antihistamine and some ibuprofen, and applied a cold pack to the wound.  

Later that night, as I tucked my spawn snugly into their covers, one on the bottom bunk and one on the top; I could feel their regret as it clung in the atmosphere of their room. Their unspoken thoughts almost formed an audible sentiment--what were we doing messing about with bees when we could've just gone searching for earthworms...