He already has a gorgeous set of kissable lips, plump and rosy and go beautifully with his enormous blue eyes.
So I didn’t see the point, really. Especially given I was trying to get home as quickly as possible.
I detoured on the walk home from school to go check on the status of the new Mind I had ordered, with promises to check out a toy shop while up the street.
That done, I had to physically remove him from the toy shop so we could get home before Grumpy and Godzilla and start dinner preparation (in time for Grumpy to do the blokey BBQ thing with the steaks).
I hesitated at the cafe, the one that does the $1 very nice coffees on Tuesdays, and decided we really needed to get home. We cross the road, holding hands, Monkey Boy tries to push me into a tree, so I retaliate with a nudge to the left and push him into a pole.
Laughing and giggling away, he grasps my hand hard and pulls me back. I let him go and hear some spitting and yelling.
“That was a bee! A bee flew in my mouth.”
It took a bit for it to sink in, because … well, I blame the not stopping for coffee only seconds earlier … brain not function so good no coffee.
“OUCH! It stung me, a bee flew in my mouth and stung me!” he yells, whilst at the same time sticking his tongue out and wiping it. Impressive.
I take a look and, indeed, there it is. The stinger, stuck right in the middle of his lower lip. I don’t think it could have managed to get it in a more perfect spot had it tried.
I effectively recall my first aid training relating to bee stings and attempt to scrape it out, using my finger nail, which is near on impossible with a 9 year old who keeps sucking his lip back in, and when you ‘scrape’ it goes all squidgy and presses in. So had to resort to the grasp and pull.
I had moment of wondering about allergy, and how I would go when being asked if there was any swelling of the lipes. Um, well, yes, actually, that’s where the
Then head back to the cafe we bypassed to get some ice to put on the sting (thankfully we know the owner very well). I know he’s ok when he asks for a milkshake.
We eventually make it home, and I make several attempts to check the status of lower lip.
It appears swollen, approximately twice it’s usual size, but difficult to tell, given every time I ask he finds something to whinge about and pouts.
My lip feels weird. I don’t want to do my spelling homework. I hate doing the dishwasher. Stop putting the cricket on, dad, I hate the cricket. I didn’t get that out, it’s not fair.
“Oh, for fucks sake, stop bloody whinging and pouting and put your lip like normal so I can see