Max just got his first bee sting. He was stung on his index finger. He did not care for it.
"Mom!" he said conversationally about an hour ago, coming in from outside, "There's a bug on here!" And he indicated the bucket he had just carried in (illicitly, by the way, because buckets are supposed to stay outside at our house, and let the rest of this story be a lesson to you all that crime doesn't pay). I glanced over, saw a bee crawling busily around on the bucket handle, and said "Yike!"
"I don't like that bug, Mama", Max said, still calmly, but with an edge of squeakiness in his voice.
"It's a bee", I told him, with an edge of squeakiness in my own voice. And, realizing that I was the parent and therefore the authority and therefore the one who needed to take the situation in hand, I added, "I'm going to take it outside, okay? You just stay still."
"Yeah", Max agreed. And then his eyes filled up with tears all at once and he wailed in an ascending crescendo of volume and pitch, "Yeah, Mama, that bug canNOT be in the house because that bug BIT me and I don't like it AT ALL that hurts my feelings it BIT MEEEEEE!"
I escorted the bee and its bucket outside hastily but with an eye to caution. Then I looked at Max's finger, saw that it was red but not puffy and that there were no protruding stingers, and got him some ice for the sting. "Those are bees", I told my caterwauling firstborn. "They like flowers, like the flowers outside our window right now. If you ever see another one, make sure you remember not to touch it, okay? Your finger will feel better in just a second."
"Yeah, Mama. But --" with renewed sobs of outrage -- "but that bee that bug needs to remember to not bite me anymore! Owie owie owie owie ....now it's better. Mama, it feels a little better. Can I have some chocolate milk?" His righteous anger is great, folks, but his attention span is small.