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Motherhood Is Not For Wimps!
My
husband and I had just landed in New York for a weekend getaway,
our first in three years. After working day and night for a week
to get ready for the trip, I felt heady with excitement. I had even
managed to get through airport security without having to take off
my shoes or surrender my tweezers. Life was good.
We
were still in the car heading to the hotel when my cell phone starting
thrumming in my purse. I sensed this was a bad development. The
only people who call me on the cell phone are my kids, and they
only call to alert me to a crisis, such as the discovery that we
are out of ketchup and it's hot dog night.
I
answered fearfully, the way one does when one suspects it's the
principal calling again, saying it's time to reconvene to discuss
young Cheyenne and her "need for excessive socialization during
class."
"Hello
Mommy?" It was my charming young daughter. "Bad news,
Mommy. Me and the boys have lice."
Now
I like to think I'm a pretty good mom, and as such, I had contingency
plans for many emergencies likely to strike during my absence, such
as ear infections, civil unrest and earthquakes. But tiny disgusting
insects congealing to my children's heads was one I hadn't figured
on.
"You
have LICE???" I fairly screamed across the nation. "Are
they sure?"
"Yeah.
You need to pick us up. They don't want us in school." "I
can't pick you up, because you are in Los Angeles and I'm on the
Long Island Expressway!" After stating this simple fact, I
broke down in tears. Why has this happened to me? I tip fairly.
I hold doors open for people. I don't even eat the last donut in
the box, and don't think that's an easy thing. Where was the justice
in this?
For
the next several hours, I cursed the fact that I hadn't coughed
up the extra few bucks for the national calling plan on my cell
phone, because I had to make about seventy-five calls, all of which
entailed crippling roaming charges. But I had no choice. Hours of
time spent making elaborate childcare and sleepover arrangements
were down the drain. Who would take my plague-infested children
now? I started calling in favors (real and imagined) from friends
and relatives. No amount of pleading, begging or groveling would
be beneath me. It would take a village to de-louse my children.
And the villagers would have to -- I was on vacation!
I
mean, talk about a bad hair day.
But
that wasn't all. Because, as everyone knows, once lice are in the
house, you also have to launder every scrap of material under the
roof, every stitch of clothing, bedding, and teddy bear, (no matter
how fragile). Or, if you are unwilling to do 450 loads of laundry,
you can simply take all the contents of your household, including
the children, and have them hermetically sealed for two weeks, after
which time experts claim it is safe to unseal them.
Later
that evening, I basked in the comfort of knowing that I had real,
true friends, the kind who buckled under the pressure of hearing
my cries of desperation. I had friends who actually came over to
lather up my kids with expensive anti-lousing agents and launder
my every possession. I also discovered who wasn't my friend —
namely, the Commandant of Lice at the school. She was the one who
at first told me not to worry, she would take care of my kids till
the end of the day until their carpool picked them up. She made
it sound as if she were just doing it because she was filled with
the milk of human kindness. She then presented me with a bill for
two-hundred and fifty smackers upon my return for services rendered.
I
still didn't get off so easy. Even now, two weeks later, yucky things
are still hatching on my kids' heads, we are still laundering like
crazy and oiling each other's heads as if we are going to be anointed
to the papacy. Feeling paranoid, I even had the kids begin to check
my own scalp, which they were happy to do and which elicited many
gasps of "Oh my goodness! I didn't know you were so gray!"
and "I think I see something! Oh, never mind, I think that's
just rust."
We
are now resorting to more drastic measures, and one of my sons now
sports a military crew cut. If these diabolical creatures don't
stop erupting in our hair, the rest of us will do the same thing,
and I will end up looking like Sigourney Weaver in the movie "Aliens."
(Well, since she's eight inches taller than me and we have other,
trivial physical differences, maybe I won't look exactly like her,
but once you're walking around with a shaved head, who notices the
rest of you, anyway?)
All
this goes to prove one thing, in my opinion. During these times
when many of us still fear the threat of domestic terrorism during
air travel, we don't even know the half of it. The real danger may
be nesting in our kid's hair.
 
"Motherhood
Is Not For Wimps!" is Judy Gruen's sometimes hilarious, sometimes
serious reporting from the front lines of motherhood. Judy,
the mother of four, is the author of "Carpool Tunnel Syndrome:
Motherhood as Shuttle Diplomacy" (Champion Press, 2002). Her
work has also appeared in Ladies Home Journal and Woman's Day magazines.
Judy's semi-monthly humor column, 'Off My Noodle," is available
by email subscription. To receive Judy's semi-monthly email
humor column, go to www.judygruen.com
and enter your email on the Newsletter page. Contact her at
judy@judygruen.com.
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