On Bumble Bees and Poop

Five minutes after I sent them outside, I was summoned to the family room because “Mommy, we really need you.”  I doubted that, and the laundry and dishes aren’t doing themselves, but I went. 

                “Mommy, there’s bumble bees out here, and they are HUGE.”  Eli opened his arms to show me that bumble bees are, in fact, two feet long.

                “Just ignore them, sweet pea.  They don’t want to hurt you.”

                “But they tried to sting us!  They have a stinger.” 

                “Bumble bees don’s sting us, honey.  They look scary, but they can’t do much.”

                Caleb chimed in.  “But the wittle ones can sting us.  And the bumble bees, they….they…they poop on our heads.”  He gestured toward the top of his head with such sincerity, I wanted to believe him.  After all, something so big and awful must do something equally awful. 

                “No, buddy, they don’t poop on your head—“

                “But one pooped on MY head!”  Eli interrupted.

                “Where?  I demand that you show me.”  Surprisingly, no evidence was to be found.  “It is a gorgeous day, and you are going to miss it worrying about bumble bees.  Go.  Play.  Enjoy.  Get dirty.  If you see a bumble bee, run.  It’ll be good exercise.  But don’t come inside.”

                (If you see a snake, however, let’s chat.  Some things are worth missing pretty days for.)

                I wonder, what are my bumblebees?  What keeps me from enjoying the joy God has given me because it looks just big and scary enough to ruin everything?  What does it mean for me to soar in the swing and fly down the slide and let the bumble bee do its thing?  I wonder.