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I wake up Monday morning looking forward to a day of lazy recovery from that hyperactive, candy eating weekend known as Easter. I am pretty wiped out and the girls are exhausted, but relaxation is not to be had. Because in the course of my morning routine I discover that there are exactly three diapers in the house. I find this especially frustrating, since I recall buying diapers just three days prior, but it appears they have disappeared.

What to do? I know that Sophie must have top diaper priority as she is only eleven months old, while Rylie is two, and though far from potty trained, at least able to sit on the toilet. So, in order to conserve our diapers until more can be bought, I leave the girls in their soggy diapers while I serve breakfast.

Sometimes tough choices must be made.

So I bathe myself, bathe the girls, and put two of the last three diapers on their little bottoms, hoping they would suffice until we made it to the store.

But of course I should have known better.

Twenty minutes later, Sophie is wearing the very last diaper, and I am forced to break out the as yet unopened package of “big girl panties” for Rylie, who rebels. She finds that she would much prefer to wear her shorts without any panties at all and I decide not to argue. A thin layer of floral cotton will not make much difference if she pees on the car seat.

Finally, we are ready. I pick up Sophie. I grab my keys. I grab my purse. I grab the diaper-less diaper bag. I take Rylie’s hand. And off we go.

I notice a few large red wasps buzzing around the front porch as we make our way out the door and I feel a pang of anxiety. I am not a fan of any insect, and I am especially terrified of the stinging or biting varieties. I have never been wasp stung, and I firmly believe this is due to my careful vigilance where wasps are concerned. If they are out, I am in. I do not knowingly go within a 20 foot radius of a wasp. In short, I avoid them at all costs.

Except when I am out of diapers and have two peeing, pooping babies.

Naturally.

So I bravely charge down the sidewalk to our car, which is not in the garage because the garage is full of yard sale leftovers. I load the girls, admonish Rylie to please not pee pee on the car seat, and get myself in the car.

I begin backing out of the driveway when a terrible burning pain sears my upper right arm. As in slow motion, I lift my sleeve and see a great blackish red beast. It seemed to be the size of my fist, but I admit it was all a bit blurry. The rest happens in a matter of seconds but it seems like an hour. My arm is on fire but I manage to stop the car and drive back into the driveway without moving the wasp, though I am in agony as it is still injecting itself into my arm. I am aware of an awful noise and seconds later I realize it is my own strange scream as I shake and shimmy and try to get this thing off of me without sending it to the back. I kick the door open, and the wasp begins to fly not through the open door but to the backseat, where by this time my children are also screaming. I have no choice but to shoo it out with my own bare hand. It flies directly for my face and lands near my neck. I swat it, make contact, and jump out of the car. It sputters away.

I definitely injured it, and I hope it died a slow, painful death.

But back to the diapers.

Though my hands are shaking, my arm is throbbing, my head is buzzing, and I really just want to turn around and call it a day, the fact remains.

We still need diapers.

I haul myself back into the car. I face the girls, who are ashen, and crying, and looking at me like I am a total stranger. Rylie grasps the fact that there was a bug and there was a battle. My arm is a swollen mess, and I can immediately count three separate stings.

Nontheless, we drive to the nearest convenience store, we buy the blasted diapers, and we make our way home. Sophie cries all the while. Rylie narrates the previous events in a quiet and concerned voice, “Mommy has owie on her arm. Mommy is hurt. The bad bug bite Mommy. You otay, Mommy?”

Am I okay? The adrenaline is pumping and I am seriously hurting, but at least that nasty joker did not sting my babies.

The next morning the swelling is down and I realize that I was actually stung five times on my arm and once on my neck. I didn’t even feel that last one somehow. I am very thankful that it was not Greg, who has serious reactions to wasp stings. And I am immensely relieved that the girls were not stung, because we do not yet know if they have inherited their father’s wasp allergy.

After witnessing my hysterics, I am fairly certain that both of my kids will be forever plagued with a pretty severe insect phobia.

But we have diapers now.