On Sunday night, right around bedtime, Tweak complained that his head had been itching "for days." So, I checked, and holy crap, the boy had lice! This meant that I spent all day applying pesticide, combing nits out of his hair, laundering every washable textile item in the house, shoving everything else into plastic bags, vacuuming, and ironing the damn beds, for crying out loud. Tweak did not like sending his 60 bajillion stuffed animals on a monthlong attic vacation, but he saw the crazed look in my eye and wisely didn't complain. I also treated myself and Tink, just in case (though the school nurse declared us clear). And Tweak is now rocking a buzz cut. Good times.
|Picture courtesy of the CDC and my nightmares.|
This is our third round in 9 years. When people say that the little bastards are getting resistant to pesticides, I totally believe it. But I have to say that I took it remarkably well, all things considered. The first time, Tweak was 2.5 and Tink was 9 months old, and they both got it from Tweak's preschool. When I saw a bug crawl out of my baby girl's hair onto her forehead to die, I started twitching and trying not to scream. The second time was 3 months before I about lost my damn mind, so I was a bit tightly wound. There was a lot of crying and swearing, and at some point I remember running around the house with my hair covered in tea tree oil and swathed in Saran wrap. At the time, this seemed perfectly justifiable.
This time, I don't know if it was medication, or having a smaller house, or not having to keep my kids from inadvertently killing themselves while simultaneously doing a full Silkwood on the premises, but I actually didn't lose my shit. Last time, it felt like a very personal fuck you from the universe. This time? An unpleasant speedbump. And while all 3 times, I may have whispered, "Die, you chitinous little fuckers!" like a continuous mantra as I cleaned and laundered, at least I didn't feel like the lice were mocking me. Though if they were, they're dead, so WHO'S LAUGHING NOW, BITCHES??
Anyway, while I feel fairly Zen now, if anytime soon, you see a crazed woman running up the road in a bathrobe, with her head wrapped in Saran Wrap, dripping a trail of aromatic oils and making sounds only dogs can hear, you'll know we had a re-infestation. Until then, I'm going to call it a win.