Fear, Loathing and Mason Jars

It was 3:30 a.m. I had no way of knowing this because I was deep asleep in the cold, dark basement where people with basements go when it's waaaaay to hot to sleep upstairs. Suddenly I was jolted to full wakefulness when I heard my name (or one of its variations) being SCREAMED and LOUD panicked running above me. "MOM!!!!!" I threw off the covers.

The Professor. He must be having one of his night terrors again. He has not had one of those in at least a year. I trudge upstairs, rubbing my eyes to find my son hysterical in the kitchen. "Mom! I got stung by scorpion in my bed! At least two times Mom, maybe three!" He is pacing, flailing his arms, and all through panicked sobs. Let me emphasize the word "hysterical." Regrettably, Mom does not react to this news with the calm, soothing voice of the sweet angel of mercy I imagine myself to be: "WELL SIT DOWN AND LET ME LOOK AT IT SON!!!"

It is on the back of his leg. I was hoping it would look like a mosquito bite. Or an ant bite. It does not. I have experience with being stung in my own bed by scorpions so this is not unheard of territory. I get him ice. I get him Motrin. Sit him on the couch with a blanket.

Then I take a deep breath and plod back to his bedroom to face the foe. I peer into his darkened room. Dark and messy. Very messy. There must be at least 100 things on the floor between me and the bed (I am counting the individual Legos here). I see his little brother asleep in the top bunk. What to do? what to do? How do I surprise my enemy here? What is my strategy? Do I throw on the lights and wake up little Baron? "Oh, don't worry, Son, I'm just whacking the scorpion in the bed below you." Somehow this scenario does not play out well in my mind.

What I need is the element of surprise.
The black light.
My scorpion killing husband keeps one in the garage. . .somewhere. . .

So I have this little discussion with myself in my head. Do I wake up Mr Hansome? Will he be irritated that I just didn't handle this one on my own? I know he is scheduled to wake up at a 5:30 instead of 6:30 in the morning (and this is a man who really values his sleep). And I do not want to appear weak. My name may not rhyme with "barracuda" and I have never been described as "a pit bull with lipstick" (I prefer gloss), but still I like to imagine myself as a woman of strength. Do I strike on my own?

No way.
(I justify this saying, "I'm pregnant." A scorpion sting would jeopardize my fetal child.)

Mr. Handsome bravely arouses and does not appear mad. He knows right where to find the black light. It may be quarter to four, but this man has quickly put on his scorpion hunter face. He is taking his job seriously. First we scan the pillow. No glowing gleaming demons there. He tosses it to me and I lay it carefully in the hallway.

"Becky!" Handsome's whispered tone is urgent. I jump back to the bedroom. And there it is. The vile fiend. Walking slowly, unaware on the glowing sheets. How can so much evil be packed into one nasty little package?

Handsome is holding the blanket in one hand, the black light in the other. He asks for the weapon.

I had already fetched my club of choice. A shoe. I picked a nice heel (an Enzo Angiolini if you fashionistas must know) because it has a closed toe and a flat bottom without any ridges for the evil monster to hide in. I give it to Rich with confidence, knowing Enzo would be proud to be a part of this triumphant parental moment.

Suddenly and without warning, with the vile creature tiptoeing in the purple glow, Richard drops my weapon of choice in favor for a Croc he picked up from the rubble of toys that is my son's floor. A CROC! I am aghast. Yet he proceeds to strike with the instrument of whimpiness! The scorpion is now pinned between the mattress and the Croc. Again, I am aghast. "Honey! There's no way that Croc is gonna do any damage to this horrid enemy! Especially not on a mattress! What are you thinking!" He did have an explanation. It was very weak. (Need I point out Crocs are famous precisely because they are soft, light weight AND they have holes in them?) I kept my mouth shut. This was no time for confronting the scorpion hunter. I will have to teach him his lessons at a more reasonable time.

A mason jar is now our only hope.

I stand ready with the mason jar. Handsome holds the Croc steady in one hand and the black light high above us in the other. I know what to expect when he lifts the shoe. I have seen how fast the evil can move when under assault. In an instant, he lifts the wimpy shoe and I slam the mason jar over our target. My accuracy is true! We have contained the frenzied barbarian and he is now body slamming himself against the blessed glass! With a little ingenuity (and a sturdy paper plate) we have captured the enemy! Hallelujah! How I hate you little enemy*!

The nasty beast now sits silently in my window sill. (How I loathe its nasty ways). The bug spray man is scheduled to be here shortly.

The End

*This seems like a logical place to discuss my utter hatred for scorpions. I see them as the personification of evil (small, insipid, deadly, able to live for years without food, able to come back to life after months in the freezer, and older than mankind itself. You see the parallels?) In fact, I believe that in the perfect world of the millennium there will be no scorpions. They will cease to exists (as will sharks). Have you heard any hymns about the "Lamb and the Scorpion" lying down together without any ire?

I rest my case.

(Side note: Our little patient Professor has made a full recovery. I let him stay home from school one day. He was very helpful with Sunshine, reading her "Goodnight Moon" and entertaining her. He did state that his whole body was tingly and that the milk and water tasted funny, somehow due to the scorpions stings. He is back in school today and I'm sure he's got his own version of an adventurous story to tell! The scorpion died the next day--death by squashing on the driveway. Mr. Handsome did the honors.)