Well, apparently lice was the 4 letter word you all wanted to hear the most about. Either you are very sick people or you just enjoy the trauma of others. Either way, you get to hear the lice story. Sickos! So here you go:
Last Wednesday was one of those days that the faster you run, the least distance you cover. No matter how much I tried to get things done, I was still way behind. When I noticed it was almost time to pick up Gabriella, I sighed realized that the day of work was ending and the day of Mommy-play-with-me was beginning. Ahhh, what a joy it was to hear a good friend of mine (and the mom of Gabrie’s best friend) offer to pick Gab up and take her to home with her for a couple of hours. Time! I had bought time to catch my breath and finish things up. Just what I needed. A mental health break for a while.
Imagine my surprise when 20 minutes after pick-up, the doorbell rang. There on my doorstep stood a rather upset mom and my dejected daughter. As my friend handed over my daughter’s backpack and lunch-box, she declared in a rather Don’t hit me, but you are going to freak mode, “SHE has LICE.”
WHAT?! Oh I did not behave well. WHAT? We had already been through this last year and it was HELL to get rid of. She had been through many, many clear head checks since then. I mean, the time of snuggling with my daughter became a time of nit picking in her hair and obsessively checking for nits. I felt like a monkey mama whose sole existence was to pick nits off of her offspring. HOW did this happen? (I blame the terrorists!)
My friend went on to tell me that she took her to the elementary school nurse after pickup to get her head checked and she said they found a live lice. A LIVE ONE. One that could infect my entire household. My entire life. I have nightmares about those damn little lice. Being the mature person that I am, I thanked her and slammed the door. I spent the next five minutes consoling my crying daughter who thought she had done something wrong by not being able to play with her friend. I took the time to do that. Although, I will admit, the whole time I was doing it, I was checking her head. I was freaked. As soon as she was calm and safely set up with her babysitter (Dora, I love you at times like this!) I became a mad woman.
I went racing through the house ripping sheets off of beds and
burning them getting them into the washing machine to be boiled an inch from their 300 count life. Wondering if perhaps I could tent the house like they do with termites and blast those sons of bitches out of there. I raced from room to room with my vacuum cleaner screeching “DIE you horrible spawn of the worst kind of evil. DIE! DIE!” Stuffed animals got whipped into bags. Hair accessories got zip-locked and hurled into the garage. My daughter, slightly worried about her insane Mom was just waiting for me to come after her with combs and chemicals and gas masks.
After calming down a bit, I convinced my daughter I would not hurl her into the garage, but would rather turn her into an Italian head pop. I poured Olive oil on her hair. Enough to keep 20 Italian restaurants in business for a year. Pour. Cry. Pour. Cry. Pour. DIE you little vermin shits! My daughter just giggled.
“Mom. You are not supposed to put food in my hair!”
“I know baby. And nasty little bugs need to know they cannot live here, so we are going to oil the little lives out of them so they learn we mean business.”
All the while, our Doberman was thinking I was creating a brand new delicacy for him to lap up on my daughter’s head. It was a comedy of errors. Pour. Rub. Shove the dog away. Pour. Rub. Shove the dog away. Repeat until mommy begins to beg for tequila. (For me, not the girl or dog!) I whipped her hair into a tight bun and told her we would rinse it out in the morning.
“The morning?” she giggled. “That is a long time and will be oh so messy, Mommy.”
“Yes, but we have a plan to smother the little things to death. This works.”
Suddenly it was cool to have the oil head.
The next morning, she saw the combs come out. Oh the screeching could be heard for miles. Noooooooooooooo! I reassured her that with hair as oily as hers, this would be fine. It wouldn’t hurt. For what felt like hours, we combed those S.O.B.s out of her hair. Oddly, I found one. ONE. Panic for one. But in order to make sure they are all gone, this oil treatment plan goes on for DAYS. There is a SCHEDULE to get rid of them. It is more rigid than the military, but it is supposed to work. So we become an Italian Oil Pop several times for a 3 weeks.
I am serioulsy just thinking of just shaving her head and sending her to the airport with Daisies. Maybe she can profit from this horrific rite of passage that so many children in preschool go through.
Me? Oh I am still vacuuming the hell our of everything. If you come within a foot of me I WILL slather you with Olive Oil and tell you to go sit in time out for hours with it in your hair and not touch anyone or anything.
I am totally convinced that if there is ever a nuclear war the only things that will survive are cockroaches and lice. And trust me, lice are a hell of a lot more resistant than cockroaches. Even roaches hate lice. I am sure they will kill themselves off to avoid getting lice.
You’re itching, aren’t you. Right now, you head itches.
Come here. Let me give you some oil.
For those of you who did not choose to have lice be the topic of choice, fear not. I am not all that into popular vote. I will write about the hurt and the bite. One was scare one was funny. See, I am here for you, my friends. Lice won, but you can hear the others. You just have to wait a bit. How’s that?