A Dish Best Served Cold

Earlier today I was herding two little boys (2-3/4 and 3-1/4 years old) through my kitchen, trying to get them through the back door and into the fenced back yard before they found something inside the house that would interest them more than the great outdoors.

And lo, there came a horrible pain to my foot, a slicing, a stabbing -- something my brain was not able to really put a word to, except that it was intense pain.

Down I looked and there was a wasp crawling across the kitchen floor on his way to wherever wasps go when they are dopey from the newly chilled fall weather. Apparently this one was not out of his mind enough to let go of his quick survival instincts.

"Oh... a wasp."

My son turned to look at me, knowing how a wasp sting felt since he'd gotten his own taste of that pain in daycare a few weeks ago. "Keep moving, go boys, go!"

I staggered, sweating, to find my big size 8 sneaker. Hobbling my return I slammed it down on the unhurried wasp, cracking his spine and cutting short the last few days he had.

I thought it would make me feel better, but it didn't.