Bloodthirsty

The rolling hills and corn fields of Roc

This will come as no surprise to those who know me, but I'm not really an outdoorswoman. For instance, I don't much like camping. My idea of an excellent vacation is one in which I don't have to do anything more arduous than turn the pages of a hardcover (no, I do not yet own a Kindle. SOMEDAY). Or languidly signal the cabana boy to bring me another frosty drink liberally festooned with plastic swords and paper umbrellas and bright bendy straws.

This is slightly unfortunate because my husband loves camping. He gets really excited about the idea of toting weapons that can also open cans and be used to suture wounds and sleeping on the ground and enthusiastically slapping insects every few seconds. Whereas for me, the idea of cooking all our meals, cleaning up said meals, and putting kids to bed without the benefit of actual beds, running water, electricity, or shelter from voracious insects and wild animals just sounds like my normal life made much more difficult and more uncomfortable. Thanks, but no...I will take an all inclusive resort any day of the week and twice on Sundays. 

You may have picked up on this but my biggest problem with camping is the bugs. I do not like bugs. And I'm very much afraid that I've imparted my hatred of the insect world to my daughter.

My first clue that this might have happened was when she brought me a caterpillar on her finger and said "Mom, wook, a CApertiller". And I thought "oh wow, she is marveling at nature, how beautiful" right up until the time that she shouted "KILLLLL ITTTTT" in a deep bloodthirsty growl and stamped on the poor caterpillar. 

Oh, heavens. But in light of the story I'm going to tell, I think she might be onto something.

So, here's the thing. I have become quite fond of Minnesota.

And how not, with light like this?

  But every now and again something happens that reminds me that this is not my native soil.

This is me, a transplanted tree, sheltering two smaller little trees. Tim is the massive expanse of sky. Not that he's massive. Just more massive than us. And more at home here. Even though my kids are also natives. OK, moving on.

There are a lot of mosquitoes here. People joke that the state bird is a mosquito. It's actually the common loon, which makes sense when you consider the winters here.Now, obviously, we have mosquitoes in NC as well. And they love my blood there and I don't like them there. But here...here the bites leave welts on my body the size of my palm. No kidding.This does not encourage me to cavort around in the wild, by the way.

And now the bugs have taken the assault to the homefront and like total bungholes have started attacking children. Poor Ads got eaten up last night. And she seems to share her Mama's intolerance of the MinneMosquit because she looks a lot like that monster from the Goonies. Except redder and with more hair.

Who looks this cute with one eye?

Her right eye is swollen nearly shut and her body is liberally splattered with quarter size welts. She looks at me (out of her one good eye) and says "I feeeeellllll" in a pathetic voice. I don't know why she doesn't finish the sentence...she feels what? bad? sick? hurt?...but it's incredibly sad.

We actually had to take her into the doctor TWICE to ensure that she wasn't suffering from periorbital cellulitis. Which she probably isn't, she's just suffering from crazy mosquitoes and taking Benadryl for the swelling and looking like a hot mess in the meantime.And she's on an antibiotic just in case she is in fact suffering from some kind of scary infection. Because she's too swollen for them to be sure, and it's just getting worse. Poor little pumpkin.

So now it's WAR. And I figure if the mosquitoes can go all Sherman's March to the Sea and burn down my house disfigure my kid, I'm justified in going chemical on their buggy ...thoraxes. Or whatever.

Bugs! Thy doom is nigh!

And that's another marvelous thing about resorts. No DEET required.