Buzz. Kill.

When Sean and I first got together I used to throw around the word "hate" a little more freely.  "I hate losing socks." "I hate people who forget to signal their left turns." "I hate guitar wank-offs."  But Sean had a habit of pointing it out to me.  "Such a strong word." he would say, or "So much to hate, isn't there?"  After a while I came to feel, too, that "hate" really was a strong word, not to be used so lightly.  I believe in the power of words, after all. What I felt for my mismatched socks was not that serious.  I started amending my language to say something more accurate, like "It's cheesy when they do these guitar wank-offs."  Not so exciting as hate, I guess, but less angry.

Since having Boodge I've become more aware of my language.  I've cleaned up my potty mouth (sometimes), and even more important, I'm glad I've cleaned out the loose usage of "hate." I'm aware that he is copying me, I see it so clearly these days.  I'll say something like "That's outrageous," and half an hour later his drawing is outrageous, his poop is outrageous, his tummy hurts and that's outrageous.  What use does a healthy, cared for three-year old have for the word hate?  I'd rather hear shit or fuck come out of his mouth, than hate.  And until today, I had heard "holy shit" and a loud string of "fuck", but never "hate", pass through those little lips. 

It's because of the mosquitoes.  In case you didn't know, I live in BC's "Fraser Valley." You may have heard of this region, we've been in the news lately because of the surge in the mosquito population.  My mom even saw as story about us in Montreal, the other side of the country.  They're that bad.  The Fraser River, just down the hill from us, is at a 5-year high, and July was unusually wet.  Apparently, mosquito eggs can lie dormant for 30 years, waiting for some moisture to hatch them.  And they hatched, all at once seemingly, when we were on Vancouver Island for my cousin's 40th birthday party. 

When we returned, Boodge ran down to his sandbox straight from the van.  I followed him and told him 5 minutes only, because we just got home. In that 5 minutes I got about 8 bites.  They were there, where they had not been before. The area around his sandbox, shady and grassy and weedy, is a hot spot.  You can see them buzzing in the air all around it.   

Now they've been here for two weeks.  Just as July rolled in and the weather warmed up, just as all the sweet dreams of summer I dreamed during long lonely winter with a new baby and toddler were about to finally come true, the mosquitoes came.  Just as we began to be able to barbecue and eat dinners on a cool evening deck, just as the garden started coming into fullness, just as our lawn is all grown in and ready for play, lounging in the sun, splashing in the kiddie pool.  The mosquitoes came and our yard feels like a hostile place. 

My kids are covered in bites.  Peanut looks like she had chicken pox, and Boodge is ripping his legs up with his fingernails. 

Forehead, nose, under her eye, on her cheek. And a little strawberry juice. Yum.

Spotty arms, scabby legs.

Chubby baby legs should not look like this.

Little boy legs either.

And the other one.

 I want so much to take them out to yard, to enjoy the summer, but everytime I do it ends badly.  Sunday, we made an attempt, dressing both kids in long-sleeved, light-coloured pj's and shoes, even though it was a humid 26 degrees Celsius outside.  We assembled by the door and made sure we had everything we needed, then quickly opened it and shut it as if the outside world was some giant garbage can full of fruit flies.  But the fruit flies are mosquitoes, and we are in the garbage can now.  We tried feebly to do some yard work and play.  After about 45 minutes, Peanut was crying from being overheated, and Sean was done too.  My skin was crawling and my nerves were frayed from slapping bugs off myself, my baby, and my boy.  There's something horrific about the sight of a mosquito poised to suck blood from my baby's fat little cheek, her nose, under her mouth. 

I am not willing to coat my kids in bug sprays that contain deet.  It just seems way too toxic to put that on a little baby, even a toddler. I try not to even put it on myself.  People have recommended garlic, lemon juice, rubbing my arms with moss, eating more oranges.  I tried a patch that supposedly causes my skin to secrete Vitamin B1, making me not taste good to mosquitos.  It did seem to work, but it's not safe for Peanut either, and Boodge won't wear the "band-aid thing".  I haven't found something that feels OK to put on my kids and works.  So we hide from our backyard. 

Today we went out to harvest the garlic, because we had to.  They were on Peanut before I had set her down on her blanket, and by the time I had dug out the 16 bulbs she was crying from overheating in her long clothes again, and I had swatted at at least 30 bugs off of us. I gathered up the whole dirty mess of garlic and Peanut to take inside so I could tie them up for curing.  Those garlic were planted the weekend Peanut was born, and I had a special attachment to them. I wanted to take my time to do them right, not hastily and under stress.

Amazingly, they did not interfere.

They were worth it.

 Later, while Sean mowed the lawn in full clothing and a heavy coat of "Deep Woods Off", I took the kids out again to pick some lettuce, snap peas, and carrots for our salad.  Boodge wanted to stop at the strawberry patch too, to pick the ripe ones.  The strawberries are near the compost bin and a mini-field of assorted weeds in our yard, which have grown high in our neglect this summer.  Mosquitoes love it there. I squatted on the steps with Peanut on my lap, trying to reach into the patch to pick the red berries, but some tall weeds were in my way and from them mosquitoes were launching an attack on me and Peanut.  I slapped at them and slapped at them and then angrily I pulled out all the tall weeds and threw them on the ground behind me and that's when I said it, "Agh, I hate them! I hate mosquitoes!"

I saw Boodge looking at me and I had a clear understanding that he had taken in what I said.  But I said it again.  "I hate them.  They're making me crazy."  Strawberries picked, I tried to recover some good cheer and suggested we pick the raspberries too but once that was done I was barely hanging on.  "Let's go, Boodge. Now. In." As we walked up the stairs to the house he said, "Mama, I hate that...I hate....I hate that windy wind."  It wasn't even windy.  He just wanted to try it out. Hate. 

Thanks a lot, mosquitoes. I just know he's gonna use that word on me one day.  And when he does, I will blame you.