A Man, A Wasp Nest, and a Lesson in Critical Thinking

I have a swollen lump on my thigh about the size of a tennis ball.  It’s red.  It itches.  All in all, an unpleasant experience—zero stars, would not recommend.  Why, you ask, do I have a red, itching lump on my thigh?  Because, I answer, I am a man.  This means I am large in stature, but occasionally stumble when it comes to critical thinking.

Three days ago, my son and I decided to spend some time in our backyard together.  He loves to run and I love to watch him run and tire himself out before bedtime.  Everyone wins.  After a solid round of wind sprints, he decided to take a rest on one of the patio chairs near our propane firepit. 

Enter the wasps.  You see, at some point during the previous owner’s tenure, a horror of wasps decided to nest in the interior of the firepit where the propane tank goes.  I have no evidence that this is why they left it for us, but you could say the circumstances kindled my suspicions.  Regardless, I was well aware at this point in time that they festered within the dark crevices of the firepit, awaiting the smallest of provocations to unleash their fury upon the world.

This is where I blacked out.  I have spent the last three nights staring at the ceiling, wondering what could have possibly possessed me to do what I did next.  I have no answers.  Were I in the court of law, I would claim temporary insanity.  Given that I was tried in the court of marriage, I claimed temporary stupidity.  My loving wife is convinced of the second part, but has her reservations on the first.

Regardless, what happened next is I stood up from the chair, walked to the firepit, and threw open the propane tank access door.  Upon opening it, I discovered the largest wasp nest west of the Mississippi hanging off the inside of said access door. 

The wasps, needless to say, were upset.  They charged out to do battle like the Mongol hordes across the Eastern European steppes, their multifaceted eyes filled with rage and bloodlust.  I, being a man, did the age-old dance of men who have startled dangerous insects—a graceful combination of flailing arms and high knees while executing a slow to moderately paced rotation.

Midway through my first rotation, I realized that my two-year-old son was well within the blast radius of the wasp apocalypse.  This is when I experienced my very own “suburban mother lifts car off child” moments and threw caution to the wind as I leapt to his defense.  I swatted one wasp away from him, swept him off the chair, and sprinted with him back to the safety of the house held over my head like a thirty-five-pound Simba getting presented to the animals he would soon eat. 

We made it inside and shut the glass door, a barrier wasp-kind has yet to figure out how to overcome.  I hugged my child close, checked him for any bites or stings, then set him down and turned to face my judgement at the hands of my wife.  I had one move to make at this moment, and I made it:

“That was incredibly stupid of me to do,” I said.

She opened her mouth, closed it, looked at me.  “Yeah, that was dumb.”

It was at that point I looked down at my thigh and saw the rapidly swelling red spot.  I had saved my son, but the Gods of Stupidity still demanded their pound of flesh.  All I can say in my defense is that the wasps may have won the battle, but a can of Raid and a size ten boot ensured that I eventually won the war.