A bee flew into John’s shirt and stung him. He is now lying on the couch in Jennifer’s arms, watching Scooby. Henry is offering him treats that will make him feel better and that Henry would also enjoy, like ice cream at the ice cream and sports memorabilia store. Henry knows all about bees, having been recently stung twice (even though I said he wouldn’t be). He said to me, You don’t even know what a stinger looks like.

I was stung by a bee the summer between kindergarten and first grade. We were in New Hampshire, at my mother’s family’s vacation house, the backyard of which was filled with bees’ nests. (The inside was filled with bats and mice, and someday I may tell you about them.) My bee had stung me in the thigh. Out on the deck, my mother lay me on my stomach, spread a poultice on my leg and read me Little House on the Prairie while it set. That bee sting brought me happiness.

Henry was stung by a bee today, even though yesterday, when he we told him not throw his water bottle at the trash and he did and missed and then we yelled at him to pick up the water bottle and put it in the trash and he stood there instead and cried that the bee he saw by the trash was going to sting him if he moved closer, I said to him, The bee is not going to get you, Henry, several times. Even though I said this, the bee did get him today.