Wasps have taken up residence on my front porch. I am not at one with them. In fact, while I love bees, I fear wasps. Even more, they make my kids nervous, and for good reason. These wasps – or “wasp-ezz,” as the Tiger used to call them – like to fly right in your face.
If they would just nest anywhere in my yard (apart from the kids’ swingset), we could quietly co-exist. But no. They’ve decided the cracks in my front-porch bricks are the bee’s wasp’s knees.
My husband set up a trap, but so far all it’s caught is one lousy mosquito. Chemicals are a last resort.
And so I’ve taken to chasing them with a flyswatter, shouting, “I’m the ferocious wasp hunter!”
This set the Bear into fits of giggles. “Mama? YOU?” He knows darn well I’m neither ferocious, nor a competent hunter, nor unafraid of wasps.
Maybe this is one of the transformations wrought by parenthood. In times gone by I would have yielded to the wasps. Now, I fight them. I’ve killed four of them, thus far, and a few others are MIA.
Perhaps bravery really isn’t about being fearless, but about overcoming our fears.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some swatting to do.