Do You Hear The Lambs, Clarice?

Lately Jarrah's been asking for "real life" stories when she goes to bed. When I press her for specifics, she narrows it down to "bee stories."

By this, she means the small collection of stories I've assembled over the years in which bad things have happened to me or my loved ones involving bees. She will listen to these over and over:

Once, Daddy and I went to an outdoor movie theater, and they gave us blankets in bags. And when Daddy opened his, a bee flew out and stung his finger, even though it was nighttime. It hurt a lot.

Once, I was walking around in flip-flops at my sister's soccer game, and a bee stung my toe. It blew up and became huge. I screamed and screamed. My mom had to take me home and throw me in the bathtub.

Once, Daddy and I were at the Starlight Ampitheater and a bee stung his toe while we were smelling the flowers. It hurt a lot and blew up. When it stayed that way for two weeks, I made him go to the doctor. Turned out it was infected, and he needed antibiotics.

Once, when your Aunt Lindsey was a baby, she followed a bee around the window with her little finger and finally squished it. It stung her and she screamed a lot.

That's as detailed as the stories get. For one thing, I don't remember them that well, and besides--she doesn't care. She really just wants to hear that people screamed. I know this, because she starts getting confused and asks for other "real life" stories that don't involve bees, but also involve screaming.

"Tell the one where Uncle Karl was screaming in bed."

"Oh, that one isn't about bees."

"Tell it."

Once, when Uncle Karl was little, he started screaming in the middle of the night and we all came running from our rooms. When we got to him, he was throwing his pillows and blankets in the air like a crazy person, screaming "There are crabs in my bed! CRABS! AAAAHHHH! CRABS!" Pop-Pop tried to calm him down but he wasn't even awake. The rest of us stood in the doorway staring like, "Whatever."

"Tell the one about Pop-Pop screaming in the car."

"That one doesn't have to do with bees."

"Tell it."

Once, when we were on our way home from Sea World, I was sitting up front and asked Pop-Pop if we could listen to one of my 8-Track tapes. He said sure. I put in Paul McCartney and Wings and "Silly Love Songs" started up. It starts "EE-OO-AH-OO-EE-OO-AH-OO," a mechanical sound. Pop-Pop went "AHHHHHHH!" and swerved the station wagon over to the side of the road. I stared at him and he kept screaming "AHHHHHHHH!" I said "What's the matter?" and he screamed "THE CAR IS BLOWING UP! DO YOU HEAR IT?" "That's the song," I whispered, and knew I was somehow going to be in trouble.

Jarrah laughs and laughs whenever I get to the part in the stories where someone screams and freaks out. The car blowing up in particular tickles her like mad. "Again!" she screams. "Again!"

"But I've already told it three times. You know it!"

"I don't care! Again!"

I need to start gathering more childhood memories where someone was screaming. Apparently, hearing about people screaming is like hot milk and back rubs to my very strange kid.