I have accepted fear as a part of life - specifically the fear of change... I have gone ahead despite the pounding in the heart that says: turn back. Erica Jung

Saturday, June 14, 2008

The Honeysuckle Incident

I shut off the vac. In the absence of it's industious roar I could hear the squeals of little boy delight and the screams of abject terror. Sighing deeply I left off the never ending housework when there are childern around. I went out onto the porch, stepping over my black chow Pudgin (don't ask), and looked up just in time to see one of my nephews, Patrick, careen around the corner of the house, his face pale and tears in his eyes. Behind him in hot pursuit came his four year old baby brother, Dalton, giggling that evil laugh that you only hear in a Stephen King movie. He had something in his hand raised up as if to throw it at his fleeing brother.
Pat rushed up the steps and hid behind me.
"What is going on out here?"
"Dalton's trying to kill me!" Pat wailed. "He's throwing honeysuckles on me."
I looked at the white blond-haired, big blue eyed mini demon in front of me and saw that in his hand he indeed held a tiny honeysuckle blossem. The wooded area behind my house was covered in them.
Normally the throwing of honeysuckle blossems would not matter, but recently we found out that Pat was allergic to the nectur inside. He had sucked it out along with his brothers last summer and blew up like he had been bee stung. Which resulted in a trip to ER, many doctor visits, and shots. Understandably he was very paranoid about honeysuckles.
"Dalton, why are you chasing your brother with that?"
I shuddered. I swear Dalt sounded just like that kid off of Pet Semetery.
"Dalton, sweetie, I want you to find something else to entertain yourself besides terrorizing your brother."
Why is it that that is the first word every child learns first?
"Do it or you will come inside for a nap."
He started to cry.
"Don't want nap." He stomped his little dirty feet. "You're mean. Going tell my mommy."
"Yeah, right. I'm shaking in my flip-flops."
He stomped his foot again, threw down the blossem as if to make a dent in my porch, and ran off toward the swingset, Pudgin right behind him.
"What if he does it again?" Pat said, sniffling.
I looked at the red-headed eight year old. Time to nip this paranoria in the bud, pun intended.
"Patrick, did Dalton force you down and stick the honeysuckle in your mouth"?
"Did the honeysuckle spit evil sweet-smelling goo at you?"
"Did the blossem sink little teeth into your skin to suck out your blood?"
He just stared at me.
"Then I don't think you'll fall over dead if a honeysuckle should hit your skin. Now, go play-quietly-while I finish the housework."
He shuffled off the porch and headed in the other direction from Dalt. Somehow, though, I knew was not the end of this. I fully expected to be back out here breaking up another fight within the hour.
As I turned to go back inside my eyes landed on their older brother, Cory.
"Why didn't you stop this?"
He shugged.
"I knew it wouldn't hurt him and it was fun to watch."
I let out an aspirated sigh and headed back in with a slam of the screen door.
And it was only alittle after ten am.
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