Hornets in the Water

 

“Auntie Rachael, Auntie Rachael!!! We need you!” Auz’s panicked shouts rang in my ears.

I dropped the book I was reading and jumped up. I was babysitting the nephews at my brother’s house, and the boys were swimming. From my vantage point I could see them as well as hear them. Quick scan: both little heads bobbed above the surface, all four eyes wide and staring at me, no obvious blood. Quick analysis: we were good. I could breathe again.

Then the ultimate word that strikes frantic fear in every responsible adult’s heart when children are submerged in water: “HELP!, Auntie Rachael, HELP!”

(Seriously, kid, ‘help’???? I can see you from here. You are NOT drowning. Do NOT shout that word. I will drop over dead from a heart attack, then where will you be????)

I walked calmly to the water’s edge. By now both boys were cemented to the opposite wall of the pool and not moving. “Auz, honey, what is it?”

He was in the throws of full-blown hysteria. “A hornet is in the water. It’s going to sting us. GET IT OUT!!!”

Still calm, I used my Jedi tranquilizing voice. “Auz, where is the hornet. Point to it.”

With his small hand shaking, he raised his finger just above the water line and extended his arm slowly. He pointed to a spot just below where I was standing. And, indeed, there floated a hornet, a dead hornet, caught in the pull of the skimmer, being drawn to the basket of doom.  Nope, this insect of terror would, in all probability, not be stinging any one ever again.

“Auz, sweetheart, it’s dead. It’s not going to hurt you.”

“GET IT OUT!”

“Can’t you just stay away from it?” Jedi calm radiated from me, I could feel it.

“NO! GET IT OUT!” Well, apparently I am not Yoda.

I sighed and hung my head. When he was this wound up there was only one answer: start drinking. (No, not really.) Fix the problem. I went in search of the skimmer net. Huh, problem – my brother had no skimmer net.

“Auz, I can’t find the skimmer net. You’re just going to have to leave the dead hornet be until it gets sucked into the skimmer basket. It’s almost there now. Just stay on the other side of the pool for a few minutes.”

“But Daddy always scoops it out with his hands.” Z had finally spoken. I immediately wished he hadn’t.  It wasn’t like I had not thought of this solution, thought of it and discarded it immediately. You see, I am allergic (That should probably be in all capital letters – ALLERGIC. ) to all things bee related, even dead ones.

“Yeah,” Auz immediately jumped on that bandwagon. “Scoop it out with your hands.”

Time for some adult honesty here. They’re 11 and 7, they could appreciate my dilemma. “Boys, I’m not going to scoop that out because if I accidentally touch the stinger I would get immediately very sick, and you would have to call 911.”

Their big eyes in their little faces grew impossibly larger. “Why?” they breathed together.

“Well, because I’m allergic to bees and hornets.”

“And wasps, too?”

Okay, a little off track but, “Yes, and wasps, too.”

Auz: “So, if you scoop it out and get stung I need to call 911 or you’d get really sick and maybe even die?” I could see the wheels turning in his little head, and I DID NOT LIKE where this was leading, not one little bit.

“Uhm, yes, 911.”

The wheels stopped turning. His decision was made. “That’s okay. Scoop it out. I know how to call.” Auz , now the very picture of poise, calmly waited for me to do as requested.

Well, how do you like them apples? The kid rationally, objectively weighed the options and decided my possible, imminent death from a dead hornet sting was better than waiting out the few minutes it would take said hornet to reach the skimmer basket. Just let me say, he will never be my medical power of attorney.

Now Z decided to jump in, my little golden tiger-eyed white knight, “No, Auz, we are not risking Auntie Rachael. It’s not worth it!”

Now, I love both my little guys, and I know they both love me, but they are very different children who think in very different ways. (When it comes right down to it, don’t we all?) That day Auz was willing to sacrifice me to continue swimming freely while Z was not. Maybe next weekend it will be Z’s turn to sacrifice me to something he wants. Who knows?

My nephews are learning the lesson that comes to us all at some point: nothing comes to any of us without some price. All choices have consequences, some good some bad.  Spending more time at work, comes at the cost of less time with hobbies or with family. Buying a new car may sacrifice your down payment on a house. It’s how we make those choices and then deal with those consequences that set us apart from the fray, sometimes even pull us away from the edge of the chasm. As we get older, I think we get more artful at how to conceal, even from ourselves, what (or who) we are willing to sacrifice for our own goals and desires. Disguising it makes us feel better about it, but stripped of its dissembling, it’s not a pretty picture.

I look at the life I lead, and I’m mostly content, but there are things and people I’ve let go of (or been let go of by) along the way. Sometimes those memories crash over me – paralyze me even, then leave me with the inevitable questions of what might have been. There’s nothing productive in hiking down those long, dusty trails of “could’ves”, but the paths are always right there tempting me to try.

Purposefully, I remind myself that God’s timing is perfect, and my days were written in His book before I was ever born, but there are some moments I’d like to ask if I could skip this chapter or have a rewrite of one of the chapters long since read. But it doesn’t work like that. So, instead, I shuffle one foot in front of the other trusting that this particular path is drawing me somewhere He intends to lead even if it doesn’t feel so certain right now.

And, really, I know I’ll be okay as long as there are no hornets in the water.