…we discovered on Saturday that two of the kids have the ultimate “wow, I feel like a leper” affliction: lice. Which, for me–the person who cleans bathrooms every night and wipes the sink of all water after every use–is pretty much the equivalent of dumping the back of a garbage truck into my living room.
We told everyone we knew they’d come in contact with (if you didn’t get a call, you’re cool) and proceeded to attack the issue. We treated every one of their “great” (read: thick and hard to sift through) heads of hair. Twice. Last night, I looked towards the clock at 8:30 and then again when we finished the final comb through at, oh, 11:30 and collapsed on the couch, with “hey, I bet this would have tasted awesome when it was warm and we thought we were going to have a relaxing evening (jinx!)” Chinese takeout.
Ri. Dic. Culous.
In the midst of all of this–over the course of three days–Rustyn split his knee open; the dog ate a giant box of fruit snacks, bags and all (then threw up, seven times, once on my bed in such a way that it soaked into the mattress, leaving me–following the second night of lice combing–stripping the sheets at midnight. And cussing. Loudly.); the sprinkler pipe the basement company broke a few months ago and swore they fixed, uh, wasn’t fixed, leaving water gushing over our front yard when Brad tested the system; J smashed her face into the cement; and, well, the usual loudness and mess of keeping everyone fed and clothed and alive still swirled.
Between the vomit and the blood and the sanitizing, we’ve washed every pillow, blanket, sheet and comforter in this house, and at one point had a stack of dirty towels as tall as my (not infected, by the grace of God) head waiting in the laundry room to be scalded clean of any living, minute organism.
More than once–when I wanted to scream, “everybody sit and don’t touch anyone or anything–here, wrap your head in plastic”–I’ve teetered on the edge of just plain losing it.
When I looked at Brad and said, “Seriously, what else can happen?,” he shrugged and, recalling last year’s all-over fungal infection he picked up while out on a run, said, “The summer of 2014 was the summer of the itchy body; this is the summer of the itchy head.”
I love you dear, I really do. And I thank you for keeping me sane.
But, seriously, I feel like this should be the last summer where “itch” is the theme.
I think, if we haven’t yet earned a full night of sleep or a quiet meal, we’ve earned that….