Since Nicholas has had a fever today, we have been enjoying a bit of the beautiful weather in our backyard in fits and spurts between rotating doses of ibuprofen and Tylenol.
Right now I am being treated to a vision that I scarcely think I will be able to describe.
I call it the dance of the bee-killer.
My dear husband, who I try really hard to leave out of this blog, has just made it impossible to do so.
He is currently pacing the back yard with a yellow whiffle-ball bat, swinging at carpenter bees. I wish I could say this is the first time I have been a witness to such comical behavior. But it is not.
In his defense, he does it in the name of protecting the family. He is keeping us all safe from the bees. (Or he is pissing them off enough that one of them is going to get us – I’ll keep you posted.)
The reason today became so different from all the other times I have seen the killing-of-the-bees dance, is today my son picked up a stick and started mimicking his father. Good lord, the boy is going to think this is the actual way to deal with a bee problem.
There are some things that I have learned can not be changed. This dance is one of them. I have the strongest hope though, that I will be able to talk some sense into my son when he is old enough to understand reason.
Until then, I will watch my 6’6″ husband, with his great wingspan, swing a bat at these teasing, taunting little creatures. And laugh.
(He just killed one. The glee is a little alarming.)