Those Lousy Kids!

Friends, I have now experienced a parental rite of passage. One that every parent hopes they will never deal with, but every parent does. I'm surprised I lasted this long, but in the end I could not escape.

Duncan Disorderly has lice. Had lice. I really, really hope the latter is true.

I should have known sooner. The condition he was in when the problem came to light qualifies me for the ironic Mommy of the Year award. Two days before the actual discovery, I did in fact notice that he was scratching his head a lot. Suspiciously, I checked over his head...and found nothing. Mind you, he has fairly thick hair, and I have no experience with lice. Perhaps the problem was not full-blown yet, or perhaps I simply did not know how, where, or how thoroughly to look. But in the post-construction haze of drywall dust in which we live, we're all a little dry-skinned and itchy, and I chalked it up to dry skin and dandruff.

Two days later, my friend came home (I should s'plain, Ricky. The big move is actually something we've gone into with our best friend, a single dad of three. Big house, three adult best friends, many financial and child-care conveniences). My friend came home early from work to pick up his youngest daughter, Alessa, from school because she had lice. Uh-oh. Duncan and Alessa are the closest of the kids in the family - she's about a year older than he is, and they are constantly playing together.

Check again - et voila!

Honestly, I haven't the foggiest idea how I had missed them. Apparently after my initial dismissal, Duncan decided not to complain further about his itchy head. However, he had been itching so much in the past few days that he had sores on his scalp from scratching. And there were lice. Adult ones. Big, nasty creatures. I swear, I pulled one off his head and it snarled at me.

Frenetic activity ensued, procedures which would make any disaster management organization proud. You, upstairs! Grab all blankets, pillowcases, dirty clothes. You, get down to the nearest grocery store and get lice kits. You, check all the remaining household members (no one else had them, despite the furious psychosomatic itching now going around). You - stay put, don't touch stuff! For a while it seemed like there was a delousing party going on, with my friend and I working the various stations. One child showered. Next child showered while the first child got hair saturated with lice killing cream. First child re-showered while second child got the cream treatment. Combs were boiled, linens and clothes were added to an increasing mountain of trash bags in the laundry room. The pets - oh sweet Diana the PETS need to be checked! (they were also fine, fortunately). Then manual delousing of the both of them, which was no fun task. Side by side, my friend and I hunched over our children with tiny-toothed lice combs, picking by sections and removing the offending vermin.

At last, it was done. It took about two days to get the laundry caught up, and there are still more tasks ahead of us. They need daily checks, and retreatment in two days. I don't even know for sure if they will be allowed to return to school tomorrow - I think the school nurse may insist on inspecting their heads personally.

There is one shining light in all of this, however. Duncan got the haircut I've been nagging him to get for ages - and I didn't even have to be a tyrant and insist. After all his resisting, a few days of having parasitic insects chewing on his head changed his tune drastically, and he was asking me repeatedly when we were going to get it done (the barber would not take him until 48 hours after his treatment).

Once there, the barber shaved most of it close according to my instructions, pausing to ask if I'd like to have the front left a little longer so that he could spike it a bit. Ask the boy, I said. It's his hair. The boy didn't hesitate.

"Get RID of it!"

Daddy got SERVED.

There are two Duncans, it would seem. One for home, and one for show.

As I've mentioned, Duncan is a gifted kid...says so right there on the state test result paper they sent me. Comes by it honestly, I suppose, as he comes from two parents who were labeled as gifted children as well, albeit with two very different ways of dealing with it. My husband was a rather proud, confident gifted kid, one who was quite happy to share and display his talents. I, on the other hand, was a painfully shy gifted kid, one who was very paranoid about being perceived as "show-offy"...and therefore had a tendency not to volunteer too much.

Duncan, I think, falls somewhere in the middle. He does like to show off in a few areas where he shines, particularly math. But he definitely puts on a different persona around kids than he does around adults. Oh, I don't just mean in the general sense. Of course kids do play with kids differently. But as someone who knows Duncan very well, I can tell that he...dumbs it down...around other kids to fit in better. It's kind of awkward to watch, but it's his choice.

I'm not the only one who's noticed it, apparently. Every Sunday when I pick him up from Chess Club, he's usually playing some kid his own age, and they're really goofing around, not thinking moves through clearly, just playing like...well, like eight-year-olds. So I was surprised when his coach took me aside and said, "You know...Duncan's game really improves when he plays older kids. He really applies himself...and he is smart. I'd like to get him competing in some tournaments this school year." Once my swelled head subsided a bit, I asked the boy if he'd like to - hey, I don't want to be one of those pushy 'stage moms' - and his interest was piqued. So, there may be some interesting stories to tell later this year!

But around us boring ol' grownups, he is perfectly content to strut his stuff. Recently he has also developed an addiction to the classic Super Nintendo game "Tetris Attack". A seemingly simple game, and one I enjoyed playing some pretty evenly-matched games of against him...at first. But the boy studied the game. He learned the strategies, and how to build up opponent-crushing combos...and before long I was barely winning one game in five against him, if that.

Intrigued, my husband decided to try and take on the boy himself - and found himself getting just as thoroughly stomped as I was. After a long session of rematches the other day, Duncan told his daddy that he would only play one more game. Gamely tossing in some competitive banter, my husband replied, "Oh, I see. Afraid you're gonna lose to your old man, eh?"

Duncan sighed. "No, Daddy. I'm just getting bored playing against an amateur."

That's our boy.

Off-white, eggshell, or ecru?

Can't post...must...paint...

Sorry the blog's getting a bit spotty again lately. The new house has been taking up all my time and attention lately, and is starting to remind me strongly of this:
















(Note: if you've never seen this classic '80s film, you have missed out. Go out immediately and rent "The Money Pit". The above referenced scene alone is worth it.) Heck, the landlord even said "two weeks" when we first signed up for this ride.

Between the continued difficulty in getting professional drywallers to show up and the little extra difficulties that have popped up here and there with plumbing and so on, we're still not living in the new place yet. And so I insisted to the landlord that I be allowed to help in any way that I can.

Hoo boy.

My three-day Labor Day weekend was spent doing just that - labor. Painting. Installing electrical outlets. Painting. Scrubbing. Painting. Moving in what I can. And - well, you know. Painting.

I have to admit, I'm a little frayed around the edges right about now. For the past week I've gotten up in the morning and either (1) gone straight to the new house to work; or (2) gone to actual work, picked up Duncan from school, and gone to the new house to work. Then home to make dinner, clean up after dinner, return to house, work until too tired to continue, go to bed and start again. I'm bruised all over, I'm sore all over, I smell paint everywhere I go, and I've burst into random tears on three different occasions in a week simply because...I'm tired. But the house is going to be great!

Sometimes, though, the little victories can make all the difference. Today, when I got into my car after work, the radio crackled to life. The radio has not worked in the entire year that I've owned the car. Sure, it has no AC, a duct-taped bumper, and a loose window I have to guide in with one hand as I roll it up with the other, but it may as well have been a Mercedes as I cruised over to the new house with the tunes cranked up. It was dead again an hour later, but the moment was there. Then when I arrived at the new house, a note wedged into the door by the local gas company let me know I have HOT WATER. And when I went inside? A real live drywaller, repairing the ceiling! And he'll be back TOMORROW TOO!

Folks, you just can't buy euphoria like that. Not legally, anyway.