Let's skip the part of the story where Duncan seemed to have mastered sleeping in his big-boy bed. And jump over the part where a thunderstorm came and no one in our house slept for three days of exhausted hysteria.
Let's jump straight to the sunny afternoon when -- thanks to help, deep breathing, and luck -- I had restored calm to our household. The boys were playing on the porch with their trucks. They had taken a good nap. I had made a warm dinner, which was covered and waiting on the stove for Dane in the middle of a clean kitchen. (This is not the ninja part, but it might qualify by itself.)
The boys were happily ignoring me, but I couldn't get to any of my work and still keep an eye on them outside. So, I thought to myself, I might as well transplant one of those pitiful rose bushes.
I grabbed my shovel and waded into the weed patch that used to be a flower bed. I cleared the grass away from the base of the smallest rose and dug in, shoving the blade in solidly with my foot. I'd worked about half-way around the circumference of the bush when the air was suddenly full of small bugs. They were coming up from the ground in an expanding cloud and settling on my clothes and hat. There was a long still moment while I stood in the middle of the cloud with my foot still on the shovel and thought dumbly, "Tiny butterflies! No wait, what kind of bug lives in swarms in the ground . . . ?" By the time my slowed-down brain had gotten all the way to the word "yellow jacket," the more sensible parts of my nervous system were moving me out of there.
That is not the ninja part, either. Quite the opposite, really.
Here's the ninja part: When I say the sensible parts of my nervous system moved me out of there, I don't mean that I was running. I walked out of the flower bed quickly, smoothly, holding muscles not involved in walking very still. I took regular easy breaths. I got myself up on the porch, observing that roughly 20 yellow jackets were visible on my pant legs but the cloud of them had not come with me. I gently flicked away the yellow jacket whose stinger was caught in the flesh of my wrist. I didn't touch any of the others. I called the boys to me, quietly. I told them I had found a nest of dangerous bugs and we had to go in the house. I asked them if they could see the bugs on me, and told them not to touch any bugs with yellow stripes. Duncan held up his hand to my face, with a yellow jacket poised on his middle finger. I nudged it off, gently. I opened the door and quietly urged the boys into the house. I noticed that I was still crawling with insects, and that some of them were now inside my pants. I told the boys I had to go outside and take off all my clothes. I did it -- carefully.
I went back inside in my underwear, and assessed the situation. Total sting count on me: one. Total sting count on the boys: zero. Number of people crying or acting crazy: zero. Number of wrists in hot searing pain: one. Conclusion: I am a ninja.
To celebrate my new ninja status, we watched videos of tractors baling hay and Amish men milking cows. It was a good day.
6 comments:
You are crazy lucky. The last time I disturbed a large number of stinging insects, there was more than one wrist that was in pain. I'm particularly impressed that you successfully removed clothing without angering them enough to sting you.
I tend to kill the ones that do sting me though. Fair's fair.
i am just going to go ahead and admit that i held my breath while i was reading that. yellow jackets are AWFUL! so glad you escaped without (much) harm.
It was really pure dumb luck no one was stung more. Through the whole thing I felt like I was trying to send out waves of calm, but I didn't have much hope that would save the situation. I still haven't figured out how to kill the nest and retrieve my shovel without killing the roses, though. :-)
You need to wait for your "attack" until a cool evening, hopefully below 60 degrees (which may mean you shall have to wait awhile). If you wish to save the rose bush though you will need to wait until frost. You can retrieve the shovel during a cool night, but the chemicals typically used to rid you of these little burrowing flying fighters will likely kill the rose. I am reminded of the time we stepped out the front door of the Bozoo house and when the screen door slammed a very angered group of yellow jackets flew into my hair. I was not calm of course, and you might remember what a headache I had for days. Ninja you are!! :)
Mom, I *definitely* thought of you and the Bozoo house incident. I remember Dad pouring gasoline on your head to kill them because they were caught in your hair and wouldn't stop stinging. Just one sting on the wrist was incredibly painful -- and it's still really sore today. Multiple stings in the scalp would be a complete nightmare. Don't know how you stood it.
Thanks for the tip on the shovel, btw. It's actually quite cool here.
Very impressive, Hanna! I probably would have freaked out and ended up with a much worse situation. Even with all my ecologist street cred, I have a crazy phobia of stinging insects.
-Kathleen
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