When Mr. Pants was born I remember saying to Daddy that I needed to work on these fears. I had no intention of passing them on to my child. I would need to overcome them and be a grown up. For one of the fears I worked hard. I stopped having them killed and let them be. I haven't overcome it completely because I still can't type the word but I have made strides. BIG strides in my path to overcoming fear number one. Fear number two (bees), on the otherhand, I wasn't working on. I had no reason to. I hadn't been confronted by them recently and been enjoying a summer fairly bee-less. Until last week.
I was making a late dinner for ALL of my inlaws when I heard something hit the sliding glass door (I know now that it was daddy's fist as he dropped Mr. Pants at the door and ran back to what I know refer to as the Hell Hole to bring other kids to safety). I saw that Mr. Pants was screaming, crying. So I opened the door, scooped him up and brought him into the kitchen. When I set him down there was a moment. He was scratching and clawing at me to keep holding him, his face was actual terror but I had to set him down to try and figure out what was wrong. I knew something was bad and I felt a warmth come over me and a calm that I have never felt before. I needed to find the problem fast. Keep control. Had he fallen down? Broken bone? Was there a bad cut I needed to find? Then, The Moment. My eyes focused and I saw them. Bees. Covering his shirt, shorts and legs. That's when life went to slow motion. The next thing I remember is running my boy who was now naked to the bathroom and shutting the door. See, the bees had followed him in and they were all over the house. I was told later that I yelled for someone to protect Miss. Plum and that I had ripped Mr. Pants' clothes off in a matter of about 5 seconds. I don't remember that. I also don't remember how I got my phone. What I remember is standing in the tub with my naked and screaming baby, running cold water to soothe the ever swelling stings that were covering his body and in a moment of sheer panic, forcing him to take a dose of Benedryl. I have no idea how I got the Benedryl. Then I called my brother. Uncle Pants is a medic and I had no idea what to do next. He told me to "call the squad. Hang up and call 911". So I did.
I opened the bathroom door to inform the family that EMS was coming for Pants when I saw it. The circus. Again with the slow motion. Uncles and grandpas killing bees left and right between the hard covers of my son's board books. Aunts and grandmas covering nieces and nephews in blakets and soothing their fears and Daddy Pants was white as a ghost and falling to the couch. Sweat pouring from his face. His eyes, afraid. After killing as many bees as he could, he had just given himself his Epi Pen. Daddy Pants is allergic to bees. This is where I almost completely blank out. All I remember is the feeling. And the same thought running through my head that I won't even type out here. " What are you feeling, lay down, just keep talking to me". The feeling was that of being punched in the throat by an MMA fighter. Helpless.
When the squad came, so did my brother. His words were calm and sure. "They are both going to be ok. Take a deep breath honey. They will be fine. Breathe". Yeah, I think he probably took one look at me, read the complete crazy all over my face and knew I needed a calm and assured pull back from the edge. Cause I was teetering. Bad. But it worked. Seeing him there, relaxed and not seeing an ounce of panic on his face, brought me back. Made it possible for me to drive behind the ambulance carrying my husband and baby without losing it. And I knew he wouldn't leave my baby girl. He'd stay with her and care for her.
By the time we got to the ER, Mr. Pants was PISSED. He successfully (or so he thought) fought off the blood pressure cuff that the medic kept trying to use on him. But the ER wasn't going to be as easy. But by the time the doctor got to him it seemed clear that he was going to be just fine. How did I know? Well, he suantered, and I DO me sauntered, with his chin up and belly out in quiet observation, naked throughout the hospital room and investigated the space inch by inch before deciding that he would choose the cabinet under the sink to open and close and open and close and open and close. Classic Mr. Pants. We were sent home after awhile with a toddler dosed up on steroids. Which is essentially like giving a toddler cocaine. Seriously.
By the next morning, he was his normal self. Like nothing happened. The only evidence being the 22 stings on his legs, bottom an belly that itched. By day three, the stings were just little scabbed pin pricks. And today, a week later they are so faded, you have to really look for them. Daddy says this is because Mr. Pants is part vampire and has magic baby blood in him. I like that
idea. That he is self healing. That he is indestructable. That he can't be brought down by a swarm of bees. Me, I spent a good amount of day two hiding in my room to unleash the tears that just kept coming and the panic that came a day late. Just yesterday something pricked him on our floor and he panicked. It's gonna take some time for his physical memory to catch up to his actual memory. I will never forget it. But I hope he will.
And that's the crazy effed up story about how bees attacked my family. And how it seems my allergic husband is a superhero. Carrying kids to safety while being stung himself. And how I came to be not afraid of bees. For me. Now I'm just afraid of bees for them. And letting Mr. Pants play outside. Or at the playground. Or in the woods. Crap. I'm gonna have to work hard on that. I'll start after the first frost.