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.

Where's Wall-Do?

Seems I'm not moving this weekend. There's a tiny problem with the drywall guy. He's gone.

Not 'too busy' or 'canceled' or anything. Just failed to show up, and failing to answer any calls. And without proper walls, we can't move in. The frustrated new landlord was highly apologetic on the phone, swearing that he's calling every drywall guy he can think of, asking not 'how much' but 'how soon can you be here?'. But alas, this is a small college town, and school's just starting up. Drywall guys everywhere are booked solid, as the apartment business just soars this time of year. So we're looking at another week, minimum.

Fortunately for us, we are required to give our current landlord notice from the 1st of the month, and therefore were already going to be paying one more month's rent at our current place. This seemed like an expensive inconvenience at the time, but now it seems like a hidden blessing - if push comes to shove, we're fine to stay where we are for up to another month.

Also, it gives us more time to fix up what we can and thoroughly clean our current apartment. If we're to pay another month's rent here, all the more reason to try and get our full deposit back, yes? Today's project - fix that broken kitchen faucet handle that's been driving me crazy for ages.

I wasn't smart enough to bring the broken one to the store...and realized when I got there that I wasn't entirely sure what I was looking for. I settled on a 'universal' faucet set that claimed to 'replace most handles'. Out of the package at home, however, it did not seem to be a match. Even with the variously shaped inserts to the new handles, the 'stem' I was looking at on the sink did not, in fact, seem remotely compatible.

Still, I could see that the part could be unscrewed, and I began to think that maybe this was part of the old handle, and that if I unscrewed that, I would find the sort of stem I was supposed to be looking for. Those of you who see where this is going, stop your tittering immediately. Who's telling the story, here?

I had the part mostly unscrewed...suddenly it burst off as water began SHOOTING from the handle. Panicking and sputtering, I grabbed the piece and jammed it back into the hole, trying desperately to screw it back into place. I was loath to let go long enough to turn off the water, as my efforts were at least staunching the flow somewhat. But as the part refused to go back in and the water rapidly warmed (oh, why did it have to be the HOT water handle), I realized my options were narrowing quickly. I dropped the piece and dived under the sink for the main shutoff, as the water reached geyser proportions.

Water now off, I stood back up and surveyed the chaos. Sudden, blissful silence, punctuated only by the occasional drip, drip from the ceiling. Kitchen counters, soaked. Tray filled with magazines, mail and bills, soaked. Floors, soaked. Songbird, soaked. So I did the only thing that occurred to me in the moment - I laughed. Standing in a huge puddle with water dripping from my hair, I laughed until my ribs ached and my eyes teared up. And then I got the towels.

I did return to the store, this time armed with the old broken handle. Wouldn't you know, the particular type I needed cost about three times more, but hey - it's fixed!

Such is the life of the calamity bird, ladies and gentlemen. Inconvenient at times - but seldom boring.

Walking Taco, Hidden Puddle

Find me the desk jockey in Food Services that came up with 'walking tacos'. I would like to cordially invite this person to come and cover my shift on Walking Taco day.

It seems I shall be working the lines for a while, with no return to cashiering in sight. Well, that's okay. As I've mentioned, it's not a bad job, though it is hot and tiring work. And it does take a little finesse to set up properly. You work in a fairly small space behind a counter, trying to keep everything within easy reach. Trays on the left. Hot foods in the warmers in front of you. Kitchen trolley rolled up to one side with a large container of side salad and a large container of tortilla chips for the nachos. Grab tray, fill, hand to student, rinse, repeat.

"Walking tacos" consist of a big gloppy helping of taco meat and toppings...served right on the tray with a bag of Fritos, presumably with the idea that the kid can spoon the toppings into the Fritos bag and eat the mish-mash like a taco salad. So in addition to the hot foods, I have to find room for a large container of tortilla chips AND a large container of Fritos, a salad server AND three jumbo containers of shredded cheese, shredded lettuce, and diced tomatoes, all of which have to be at waist level and sitting on ice packs to keep them cold. This requires a secondary trolley, so I'm really parked in. This also takes a lot more time, as there are now extra steps to putting together each entree, and children are notoriously wishy-washy about answering the age-old question "lettuce, cheese, tomatoes?" Sure, it's a small difference in time per order, but about two hundred kids come through my line with a very limited amount of time for lunch, so it adds up.

On top of this, my accident-prone nature seems to be flaring up again, though I swear I'm only partially to blame this time. For one thing, I'm learning the hard way to double-check the settings on my warming trays, as whoever puts food on my line before I come in has been setting them to 10, or "High". (On a scale of 1-10, they should generally be no higher than 5.) Two days ago, I scalded myself with water from the nacho cheese warmer...and then noticed that the cheese cups within were starting to bubble and WARP. Yesterday, I again managed to burn my hand when I attempted to take the lid off the corn - sure enough, set to High. The ensuing chicken-like hand flapping dance was accompanied by the sort of litany inspired by having a large audience of attentively listening fifth graders. "Goh-errr....BLESS it, mother...how-wooooow-wow!"

To make the day complete -at one point I began to run low on supplies, so I had to navigate around the extra equipment and make my way back to the fridges for more. As I turned the corner, I hit a small puddle in the doorway caused by a leaking freezer. A split second later, I was on the floor in the doorway with a jammed wrist and feeling very foolish, having just taken a pratfall worthy of Cartoon Network. And still with an audience of wide-eyed younglings. Goodness knows what they're starting to think, but it's probably not far from the mark.

This lady's hilarious, they're thinking. She probably trips over cordless phones.

Fear and Nachos

School is back in session! Time for me to get back into the swing of things....and time for many kids to adjust to a whole new way of doing things.

I work at an intermediate school. In this area, 5th and 6th graders go to 'intermediate' after elementary, but before middle school (known, where I was going through the system, as "junior high"). Thus, half my students were fresh out of elementary school, where their days were spent in one class, with one teacher, their tasks and destinations dictated to them hour by hour. These kids are unaccustomed to class schedules, lockers and campus maps. And they're unaccustomed to any sort of choice in their lunch menu.

Also, there's been some staff shifting this year. We lost some folks and gained a new girl....unfortunately, this forced some juggling of roles, and although I had come in expecting to return to my usual register, I found myself serving. This in itself was a bit of a disappointment - I really like cashiering. It's a softer job, I can sit down a lot more, and it gives me more opportunity to interact with the kids and learn their names. Add to this the fact that the school's air conditioning still has not been turned on, which amplified the already considerable heat of standing in an enclosed corner of the cafeteria, leaning over steaming trays of fries and boiled hot dogs.

But this is the job. I work where needed. Suck it up, Songbird, and smile!

The heat was nearly overwhelming, and I found myself constantly resisting the urge to wipe the sweat from my face with my gloved hands. Vaguely, I thought of surgeons, and wished I had my own personal assistant to mop my brow from time to time. Quick, someone call Mike Rowe. I've got a Dirty Job for him!

But it was a great day. It was sweet to see all the fresh new faces, looking interested and excited...and a little overwhelmed. I was happy to coach them through the lunch process - one entree, two sides, one milk. Yes, you can choose which ones you want. Move down the line and give your card to the cashier, sweetie! And they were all so polite. I think fear had a lot to do with it...but I truly hope it lasts after they've grown comfortable.

One more interesting observation. The fifth graders ordered lots - LOTS - of nachos. For some reason, "nachos and cheese" are one of the alternative choices for the main entree, a baffling choice that I've never approved of. Nachos and cheese do not constitute a lunch. A snack, perhaps, or a side item. But after five years of accepting the lunch they were given, these ten-year-olds were given choices, and they realized hey, I can have nachos and cheese...for lunch! I sold nearly triple the usual amount of this particular item, and all in the fifth grade shift. Once the sixth graders began to stream in, the novelty factor vanished, and hot dogs became the lunch of choice.

And here I sit, my feet aching, back sore, shirt soaked, smelling strongly of eau de hot dog water, and still feelin' pretty good. A successful first day!

The Best Laid Plants

Earlier this year I expressed an interest in gardening. Trouble is, my love of gardening is far exceeded by my complete and utter suck at gardening. It's been an adventure this summer, one that has had its ups and downs, but ultimately I am falling back on Rule One of the brown-thumb, namely:

Watch what does grow...and take credit for it!


















And this year, my backyard seems to be the perfect place to do just that. Left to its own devices, it quickly becomes a lush wild jungle of foliage. Nothing that I planted myself was willing to stick around too long, but the yard has grown flush with interesting and unexpected flora. And so, I therefore declare myself Master Gardener of dandelions, Duckfoot and English ivy, the occasional random wildflower, poison ivy and oak (yikes!), and - this is absolutely fabulous -

PUMPKIN.

This caught me completely off guard. My neighbor failed to dispose of her Jack O' Lantern last year, and over the winter months it essentially folded into itself and became a puddle of seeds and pumpkin mush. Combined with a large squirrel population, this became a recipe for the surprise I got this summer when pumpkin plants began taking over my yard.


















Now, I'm a city girl. Raised in a metropolis. Pumpkins come from the store, right? I'd certainly never laid eyes on a pumpkin plant before. These things are HUGE. And startlingly aggressive. According to sites on the Web, they can grow up to six feet per day if you let them. I've scaled this back a bit...but it has still consumed Duncan's little garden bench.

And I thought, How freaking cool is this? I pictured my yard at Halloween, filled with my own pumpkins. Friends joked to me about how we could sit out on Halloween night and await the Coming of the Great Pumpkin.

But alas, it is not to be. It's a long story, but I'm moving this weekend. Not far - just to a bigger house a couple of blocks away. Opportunity knocked, and I answered. This time next week I shall be plagiarizing other plants, far from my pumpkin patch.

I wonder what I shall be a whiz at growing there?