Yellow jacket makes them sound like the gentlemen of wasps, as if they buzz around in little top hats, waving miniature canes.
These wasps are no gentlemen.
Honestly, we've had them around our yard for years. We have flowers blooming from spring until fall, and with that comes bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds. They usually buzz us when we're eating outside, completely unaffected by the citronella candle.
Then I stepped in their nest. I was trying to trim a blackberry bush that was growing in an ever-expanding patch of Saint John's Wort. I hate doing this because I can't see where I'm putting my feet, and in this case, one of my legs went straight down into a hole.
"That's weird," I said, pulling my leg out.
"What's weird?" asked my son. He and his sister were supposed to be playing in the backyard, but for some reason watching me do yard work was more exciting. It was about to get reeeeeal exciting.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzz . . . a cloud of wasps poured out of the hole, and they were mad.
"Run!" I sprinted towards the house, followed closely by my children and a pack of yellow jackets.
Remember what I said about the backyard? We had come out the back door and the front door was locked. I've always had nightmares that involve being chased and not being able to get a door open fast enough, and now, the nightmare was real. An eternity later, I unlocked the door and we ran in the house, slamming the door shut behind us.
If someone had asked me if I could swat a wasp out of the air, onto the floor and stomp on it, I would, well, I would laugh at them. My kinesthetic IQ has never been that great. I guess getting chased by yellow jackets unlocked some long-latent warrior gene, because I ended up killing eight wasps in that same manner.
After that, we went into the bathroom. I say we, because again, my kids were following me. I started stripping, throwing my clothes into the shower and hosing them down. Yellow jackets would periodically fly out of my clothes and I would swat them to the ground and stomp on them. Once I got everything hosed down, I jumped in and rinsed off.
Dripping wet (but still wearing clogs), we wander back in the living room. "Everyone be quiet," I hold up a hand.
Bzzzzzzzzzzz . . .
"Into the bedroom!"
We ran to the bedroom, slamming the door behind us. I shoved a towel under the crack in the door, because obviously, wasps are magic, and can fly under doors. Calling my husband, I whimpered into the phone, "It's the bees! They have us trapped!"
"Uh," he knocks on the door, "I don't see any bees."
I creep out of the room, "There . . . and there!" There were two left. Two terrified wasps clinging to the windows.
All in all, each of the kids had one bite. I was only bitten three times, mostly because I'm always cold, so I was dressed for winter. Explaining it to my children, however, was another thing.
"Why did they attack us?" My son is baffled.
"I stepped on their house. It scared them. What happens when someone is scared?"
"They lash out."
Smart kid I honestly wonder what would change if all acts of aggression were viewed this way. What if someone hit someone and we deemed them a coward? It's an interesting thought. I can tell you that I was acting out of fear when I killed the wasps. I'm the sort of person who prefers to put insects outside instead of squishing them. So what got into me? Fear. Pain. The need to protect my children and me.
When afraid, the yellow jacket ain't no gentleman, but then again, when afraid, I ain't no lady.
These wasps are no gentlemen.
Honestly, we've had them around our yard for years. We have flowers blooming from spring until fall, and with that comes bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds. They usually buzz us when we're eating outside, completely unaffected by the citronella candle.
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| A butterfly on our hydrangea tree |
Then I stepped in their nest. I was trying to trim a blackberry bush that was growing in an ever-expanding patch of Saint John's Wort. I hate doing this because I can't see where I'm putting my feet, and in this case, one of my legs went straight down into a hole.
"That's weird," I said, pulling my leg out.
"What's weird?" asked my son. He and his sister were supposed to be playing in the backyard, but for some reason watching me do yard work was more exciting. It was about to get reeeeeal exciting.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzz . . . a cloud of wasps poured out of the hole, and they were mad.
"Run!" I sprinted towards the house, followed closely by my children and a pack of yellow jackets.
Remember what I said about the backyard? We had come out the back door and the front door was locked. I've always had nightmares that involve being chased and not being able to get a door open fast enough, and now, the nightmare was real. An eternity later, I unlocked the door and we ran in the house, slamming the door shut behind us.
If someone had asked me if I could swat a wasp out of the air, onto the floor and stomp on it, I would, well, I would laugh at them. My kinesthetic IQ has never been that great. I guess getting chased by yellow jackets unlocked some long-latent warrior gene, because I ended up killing eight wasps in that same manner.
After that, we went into the bathroom. I say we, because again, my kids were following me. I started stripping, throwing my clothes into the shower and hosing them down. Yellow jackets would periodically fly out of my clothes and I would swat them to the ground and stomp on them. Once I got everything hosed down, I jumped in and rinsed off.
Dripping wet (but still wearing clogs), we wander back in the living room. "Everyone be quiet," I hold up a hand.
Bzzzzzzzzzzz . . .
"Into the bedroom!"
We ran to the bedroom, slamming the door behind us. I shoved a towel under the crack in the door, because obviously, wasps are magic, and can fly under doors. Calling my husband, I whimpered into the phone, "It's the bees! They have us trapped!"
"Uh," he knocks on the door, "I don't see any bees."
I creep out of the room, "There . . . and there!" There were two left. Two terrified wasps clinging to the windows.
All in all, each of the kids had one bite. I was only bitten three times, mostly because I'm always cold, so I was dressed for winter. Explaining it to my children, however, was another thing.
"Why did they attack us?" My son is baffled.
"I stepped on their house. It scared them. What happens when someone is scared?"
"They lash out."
Smart kid I honestly wonder what would change if all acts of aggression were viewed this way. What if someone hit someone and we deemed them a coward? It's an interesting thought. I can tell you that I was acting out of fear when I killed the wasps. I'm the sort of person who prefers to put insects outside instead of squishing them. So what got into me? Fear. Pain. The need to protect my children and me.
When afraid, the yellow jacket ain't no gentleman, but then again, when afraid, I ain't no lady.