So Troy and I were clearing the table and doing the dishes. The Rock Star was in the backyard playing and, suddenly, he began screaming bloody murder. I mean, really, the only explanation was that he was being bludgeoned to death. The only explanation other than a bee, that is.
I dashed outside to see my child flailing every single limb as if independent from his body. (Bonus points to the first person who posts what that's a reference to.) I scooped him up as he shrieked that a bee had stung him.
Protruding from his pinky finger was a stinger, the butt of the bee, and a poison sack. Garrett was ballistic. This is the second time he's been stung and he was not enjoying it anymore than the first time. Eventually we got him to stop freaking out long enough to remove the weapon of mass destruction from his digit.
Once he'd calmed down I asked him how he'd gotten stung. He informed me that there had been a bee in his plastic pool, empty except for a small amount of melted snow. He'd thought it was dead so he scooped it out. With his hands. His small, delicate, not even four year old hands. Fact was, the bee wasn't dead and, despite being rescued, stung him right in the finger. That's when Garrett decided to shake the bee off of his hand. By the looks of what was still stuck in his finger, he's violent when he sets his mind to getting a bee off of him.
"That naughty bee!" He shouted once he was no longer suffering an agonizing death. That's when we explained to him that, when scooped up by what appears to be a gigantic vessel of torture and death, the bee's only option is stinging. We told him that the bee was now going to suffer and die. I asked him where it happened. He walked me straight to the bee. It was still alive and writhing.
So I did what any rational blogger would have done. I maneuvered it onto a stick and my husband took its picture.
I give you: The Culprit.
The culprit and his victim. See the band aid wrapped around the victim's finger?