All Empathies Great And Small

With Little Girl and Neighbor Girl fully engaged in water-based activities just outside the window, I had slipped into the mind-numbing mundanity of dish-washing. There's something a little bit meditative about certain routine household tasks, I think, and while it certainly doesn't alleviate the boredom, it does make for a break, of sorts, from the general unstoppableness of my mind's standard, vulture-like circling.

So I was doubly shocked when the screaming started—that panic-pitched, rocket-boosted, EXPLOSIVE screaming that is so instantly distinguishable from the happy screams I'd been hearing, and anticipating hearing more of. I barely had time to turn and register Neighbor Girl's subdued—and alone!—presence still outside the window when the door flew open as if a tornado had come visiting, and Little Girl rapidly limped inside, tears pouring down her face like a salty, miniaturized version of the Slip 'N Slide on the lawn.

"A bee!" she sobbed, the fever-pitch of her voice not calming in the slightest. "I stepped on a bee! AND IT STUNG ME!" she added, rather unnecessarily.

After establishing—or doing a reasonable approximation of such—that the bee had been a lone renegade of the honey variety, and not a nest full of angry yellow-jackets or some increased magnitude of awfulness, I left Neighbor Girl to her own devices outside the window and gave Little Girl my complete attention in addition to the sympathy I'd already dispensed.

It took one bee-sting-wipe—and thanks to my parents for arming me with these miraculous, individually-wrapped numbing pads—a few applications of a bag of crushed ice, and many hugs, but Little Girl's pain did ease, and so, finally, did her tears. Her big toe showed no signs of swelling or reddening beyond the initial sting-mark, so I was wiping her face with tissues and preparing to send her back to rejoin Neighbor Girl, when a sudden look of shocked horror raced across her face.

Her voice trembling, she said, "Oh no! The bee! Is he going to ... he's going to die, isn't he?"

I could hardly believe that after the shrieking agony with which she'd entered the house that she was about to depart it, shedding tears for the insect that had caused it. And yet, I could absolutely believe it, for this child of mine has more empathy in her bee-stung toe than some people have in their entire bodies, and their very souls.

I quietly told Little Girl that yes, certain bees did die after they were compelled to sting, and although we couldn't know for sure since we didn't know what kind of bee had stung her, it very likely would die. But, I added, it was no fault of hers, because if she had known the bee was there, she would not have stepped on it; it had been an accident.

"And he didn't mean to sting me, either," she said, loosely translating what I'd told her about instinct and nature. "He just had to, even though I didn't mean to step on him."

Apparently reassured, she returned to her play shortly thereafter, and I returned to my dishes, thinking that if there was no event too small for empathy, then there just might be no event too great, either.