Buggers

On the bright side, her hair looks fabulous.

Because I love to overshare...

Yesterday was an exciting day because, for the first time in my life, I bought a car without the benefit of father or husband doing all the dirty work for me. I knew what I wanted, haggled it down enough to make the salesman cry, and was done with the whole shebang in 2 hours.  It may sound stupid, but I felt kind of (I know the word is SO overused but...) empowered!

Dropped off the future Oscar winner to carpool for play practice, then took my best girl out for a girl's night dinner. A lovely evening... until...

Got the princess home and in the shower. Suddenly, a tremulous voice... "Mom???"

Uh oh.

Went in to the bathroom to see what might cause that fear in the princess's voice and she is holding out a finger, with a giant lice (louse?) on it.  "What is THIS?"

Remember when I gave up swearing for Lent? Yeah. That promptly went out the window.

I may or may not have screamed "THAT'S LICE!!!!"  Which may or may not have been what caused Claire to hysterically begin shrieking.  Which she did not stop doing for the next three hours. Have I ever mentioned that Claire is not supposed to cry. Like, ever? Awesome.

To make matters worse (so. much. worse.) we had been told in September at our neuro's office that, because of various brain surgery reasons, lice (and their toxic treatments) are more than just an annoyance or inconvenience for us... they have the potential to make Claire *very* sick. So she was certain she was dying.

I called Peter at work (I'm sure it was hard to hear me over all the shrieking) to go get Every. Lice. Treatment. Rite Aid sells. Every. One.

Then I had to call Claire's neuro team - who were not very happy. More awesome.

And then I had to call the moms of the kids who Claire spent the night with at the overnight sleepover last week. No one wants to give, or receive, that call. I felt like the worst Mom ever. The moms I spoke to were so kind... but I imagine if they find a bugger in their kid's hair - they will be cursing my name. I don't blame them.

I have no idea who Patient Zero is... but he or she are givers. And, ewwwww.  And it sucks because we're so hyper-vigilant about this stuff due to Claire's medical condition.

Four hours later, after pulling out a fair majority of her hair with the metal nit comb, using up two boxes of lice treatments (which did, in fact, make her ill for a few hours), an entire bottle of olive oil, an entire bottle of tea tree oil, an entire jar of mayonaise, scrubbing her multiple times with rosemary mint soaps and shampoo, I finally fried the suckers with my fancy-schmancy flat iron that heats up to 450 degrees and sent the exhausted princess to bed with a lovely 'do rag on her head.

And by bed I mean the couch, from which all pillows had been removed. She's had all her (thousands) of stuffed animals taken away and either scalded in hot water, or frozen outside - not to be returned for two weeks. I bug bombed her room and shut the door with clear instructions that she isn't allowed to enter until Tuesday.  I sprayed every surface in our house with lice killer. Every towel, sheet, and article of clothing she has touched in the past week has either been thrown away, or boiled in hot water and toasted in a hot dryer.

And then this morning, we got up and did the whole thing all over again, for another two hours. No crying this time. She is either too exhausted, or too resigned. Mom is on a mission, and Claire is just going to have to deal. And, at last check, she appears to be all clear. Not a bug (big or small) to be found.  Thank God.

Fortunately, Quinn, Peter, and I seem to be okay. We keep checking (and are treating just to be on the safe side) but it seems Claire was their favorite tasty victim.

But just to be clear... that no-swearing thing? Over it. And I'm not giving up booze or chocolates either. I have a feeling, God understands.

Becoming Real

“'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
~~~

When Quinn was a roly-poly, dimpled cherub, all of about five months old, I had him wedged in the shopping cart during a trip to the Meijer in Illinois. We were strolling through the baby aisles in search of bargains when I happened upon this weird stuffed animal pillow thing with a dog’s face. It had been tossed onto a random shelf and I picked it up to show it to Quinn.  His entire face lit up like the 4th of July and he began kicking and squealing and flailing away in that “MINE!” gesture typical of babies and toddlers.

I handed him the stuffed toy and he immediately plopped his drooling face down onto it, snuggled in, and started cooing. And I thought, “Uh oh.”

You see, we were poor in the way all first time parents are poor.  No one really explains to you, not really, how expensive babies are. It’s more than just diapers and formula (yes, Quinn was a formula baby). It was lotions and diaper cream and onesies and baby Tylenol and a million other things that seemed to pop up on a daily basis.  We were broke.  Stuffed animals were expensive and were a luxury we could not afford.

But Quinn bonded with this weird brown dog thing immediately. All the other stuffed toys that were given to us when he was born he showed absolutely no interest in. But this thing, I was already imagining the heartbreak of leaving it behind.

I started looking for a price tag. I was preparing myself for sticker shock of upwards of $50, and trying to figure out how I was going to explain to Quinn’s dad that I spent that much on an ugly stuffed dog. Because, of course I was going to have to buy this thing. Quinn was so obviously in love with it... I was going to have to.

Except... there was no price tag.

I started to look around the store, trying to find other stuffed animals like this one. He was one of a kind and Quinn was NOT going to let him go.  I gently tried to pry his chubby fists away from it, but he was not budging.  Quinn had claimed him for his very own.

Panicked, I approached a sales associate and asked her how much the thing was. Quinn wouldn’t let go enough for me to even let the clerk get a good look at it. I must have been oozing desperation because the clerk took a good look at me, a good look at the fat little boy who had this lovey clenched in both hands and said to me, “You tell the cashier that Marge said the price is $4.”

Every night of his life, for 13 years, Quinn has slept with who he eventually named Chewie.  He has slept with him in hospitals, and at friends’ houses. Chewie has traveled via plane, train, and automobile with us.  He has traveled to school and to Grandma’s house. He is part of our fire evacuation plan. He has been patched up and sewn back together and loved and loved and loved. He is never left behind.

Until today.

Today Quinn packed up his sleeping bag, his pillow, and Chewie, preparing to go to his very first middle-school lock in. And as he placed Chewie on top of his pillow, getting ready to leave, he stopped and looked at him. He seemed to ponder him deeply. And then Quinn placed his hand on top of his constant companion of 13 years and said, “I think I’m going to leave Chewie home. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.”

So, I carried Chewie over to the sofa with promises that we’d take good care of him, my heart breaking a little bit.

Before he left, Quinn walked over, rubbed his hand over Chewie’s ear, then grabbed his backpack, and walked out the door.

~~~

“Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.”