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The Beastie Club

It’s been quite an exciting week for Weevy.  She visited her first distillery, went to a whisky event, and went apple and pumpkin picking.  Oh, and joined the Beastie Club.

Much as I would like to tell you that the Beastie Club is some kind of Beastie Boys fan organization, it’s not.  Weevy may have inherited a lot of things from her daddy (including, thankfully, my love of Chinese food), but her music taste comes straight from Mommy.  Katy Perry, Christina Aguilera, that fucking “Let It Go” song from Frozen… seriously, don’t get me started.

No, Weevy joined the Beastie Club just after we’d arrived at the Hurd family farm in the Hudson Valley to do our second annual apple and pumpkin-picking trip.  We’d been there literally about five minutes and were still waiting to buy our admission tickets when Weevy let out a scream that turned the heads of everyone in the enormous tent.  She was so freaked out she couldn’t even say what was wrong for a minute or two, until we finally figured out that a bee had stung her on the hand.  Thankfully the stinger was already out, but a portion of her hand was a pretty angry red, and having been stung myself, I know how painful it must have been (Weevy also, alas, inherited her Daddy’s strong aversion to pain and general physical discomfort).

Shrieking.  Sobbing.  Whimpering.  Completely going bonkers whenever a bee was within ten feet of her (and there were a LOT of bees there).  Refusing to move unless one of us carried her.  I figured the rest of our stay would be little more than damage control.  But some particularly deft parentage saved the day.  Actually, I don’t know quite how deft it was, but this is my blog, so I’m going to give myself (and her mother, of course) full credit.  The first thing I did was tell her, “You know, bees can only sting once, and then they die.  So that bee that stung you?  He’s dead now.  And you’re going to feel all better in a little while and that bee will still be dead, so don’t worry about him stinging you again.”  She actually thought that was pretty cool, and made me explain WHY bees die after they sting.  I’ve forgotten about 99.83% of everything I ever learned in science class, but I’m glad that little nugget stuck with me.

Then she asked, “Daddy, why would a bee want to sting me?”  “Well,” I ventured, “you’re wearing a bright jacket with colored polka dots on it, so the bee might have thought you were a flower.”

“Really?  The bee thought I was a flower?”

“Sure.  And you might have startled it when it turned out you weren’t a flower and started moving.”

“But I’m not a flower!” (Laughing)

Once she laughed, I knew she was doing OK.

Later on, she was eating one of the apples she’d picked, and a bee started getting a little too close.  The shrieking started again, and I quickly grabbed her, told her to drop her apple, and ran several steps away.  “You see, Weevy, the bee doesn’t want anything to do with you, it wants your food.”

“It wants my food?”

“Sure.  These apples are delicious.  If you were a bee, wouldn’t you want a juicy apple, too?”

“Oh!  It doesn’t want to sting me, it just wants my food!”

“Right!  And you see what we did there?  The bee got close, you dropped the apple, and now the bee isn’t bothering you.”

I was on a fucking roll, people.  I could do no wrong.  I was in the zone.  I was en fuego.  And sure enough, a few minutes later…. “Mommy?  Daddy?  My hand isn’t hurting anymore!”  And that’s when I uncorked the piece de resistance.

“Congratulations, Weevy!  You are now a member of the Bee Sting Club!”

“What’s that?”

“Well, once you get stung by a bee, you become a member of the Bee Sting Club.  Mommy’s a member, I’m a member, and now you’re a member.  You did it!”

This girl had gone from being completely overwhelmed to wearing that slightly red and swollen hand like it was a badge of honor.  A club!  Mommy and Daddy are members, and now she’s a member too?  This was a great day!  She loved it.  She had to keep reasserting how cool and exclusive her club is.  “Daddy,” she repeated several times, “not everyone got stung by a bee.  Some people aren’t in the Beastie Club.” I wanted to correct her, but… no, actually I didn’t want to correct her.  I wanted to be a member of the Beastie Club too.

All we need now is membership cards.

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