Stung

Sunday was a glorious day--beautiful weather, cool and clear, perfect for exploration and meandering, and, apparently, for a foul storm of moodiness for the H. The kids and I cleared out and left him to stew and work until he felt better, or at least, companionable.

We went to a local farm where the Babe got to feed a baby goat with a baby bottle, no less, and let's just say that I think we'll be going back. The place had a taco stand, and an ice cream shop, not to mention fresh produce for sale, so it was a monster hit for each of us.

Upon returning home, the H's clouds were still a little black, but we hung out outside together on the new swing set and made do. Pasha the Puppy (now nearly as big as our old dog, Tinker) was tethered on a long lead to prevent her from chasing the cat into the woods (their favorite joint activity.) The H decided she wouldn't run off (sometimes, it's true, she doesn't) and let her off lead. He went inside to get a glass of wine, while I watched her....chase the cat into the woods. I followed them a bit up the grassy bank that leads up the hill from our house to the edge of the (dense, as yet unexplored by us due to fear of deer ticks) forest. I stopped at the brush lining the larger trees, distracted by a wild blackberry bush--I picked one and it was unbelievably sweet. I wanted to share these with my family--started picking to find four perfect ones (not many were yet ripe) when I felt something prick my sandal-clad foot. I looked down to see my right foot aswarm with yellowjackets.

"Stung! Stung!" was the only thing I could say as I ran screaming down the bank, slipping and sliding and kicking off my sandal as I fell. I ran in the back door to the kitchen, clutched the counter and screamed some more. (As someone who's experienced the pain of unmedicated labor--at least for a little while--and a herniated disc, I can say with authority, this was worse.) My poor kids started to cry as I grabbed for the baking soda and a large steel bowl, poured some soda in, mixed some water and plunged my foot in. Dido got some ice for me and we added that, too, as the whole family looked on in horror. As I stood there, now whimpering, I felt something scratching my leg, inside my jeans. I haven't disrobed that fast since reuniting with my college boyfriend after a two week separation. The stalking wasp flew around the kitchen for a bit, prompting the H to chase it wildly with a flyswatter (thanks) while I continued to ice and soak.

I got off light, considering I stepped directly into a ground nest--only four stings, three on my foot, one on my leg. They hurt, a lot, for about 24 hours, and now just itch. I will never go near our woods without muck boots again.

Welcome to the country, sucka.