For about five years when they were little, my son and daughter had a bug refuge in our front yard where they would bring insects after they’d caught them to enjoy a “spa” getaway. They built little houses for the bugs out of small twigs and dried leaves, and they wouldn’t allow me to pull any weeds surrounding their pocket-sized paradise. My son especially loved bumblebees, even though he was stung a few times when he gently tried to pet their fuzzy abdomens.
Today, when I made some artsy honey-and-vanilla sugar cookies to kick off the Labor Day weekend, I couldn’t resist texting my college freshman a photo.
MOM: “Hello, there! How’s life in the colony?”
SON: “Colony? You mean ‘dorm?'”
MOM: “Do I ‘hive’ to paint you a picture? Wait, I guess I already did. Do you like my honey cookies? Or maybe I should say, ‘Do you like my cookies, honey?’ Should I stop by with a few?”
MOM: “No, bee-cause?”
SON: “Yes, I want cookies, but no, don’t drop by. We’re just hanging out tonight, then I’m helping a friend move into his new apartment this weekend. Can’t you just freeze me a few? Why are they covered in bees?”
MOM: “Well, we do live in the Beehive State. And bees are industrious and Monday is Labor Day, so ‘to bee or not to bee’ was an easy decision.”
MOM: “Don’t you mean, ‘Let it bee?'”
MOM: “All right, sorry to ‘bug’ you. I’ll save you a couple and buzz off now. Have a sweet night!”
SON: “Can you make that six? Maybe seven?”