If there is one thing that everyone in the whole world knows about me, it’s that I am the most hyperbolic person ever and that I exaggerate more than anyone else all the time. The downside to this is that people tend to wave off my claims of descending into hell on any given day, when I launch into stories like; My Child’s Tamagotchi: My Descent into Hell or We Ran Out Of Paper Towels: My Descent into Hell. I can understand this. It’s a bit like crying wolf. However, if you have a child in daycare or school, chances are that you’ve traversed the outer rings of the inferno with a nit comb in hand and will probably agree that there’s no punishment for all the earthly wrong you’ve done that is more horrifying than having a child with lice.
Let me tell you the tale of my woe.
It was just after school began, about two weeks into the term, when I got the phone call. I hadn’t showered yet, and I was just settling down to eat my Lunchables when the phone rang, piercing my reverie. Upon answering, a voice spoke to me from faraway.
“This is the nurse at Duckie’s school,” said a drawl, “Your daughter’s head itches.”
“Oh shiitake mushrooms on falafel,” I replied, “its lice, isn’t it?”
My heartbeat echoed in my ears.
“Yes, it’s lice.”
A lot of things went through my mind. The first was to wonder what I had done so wrong in a past life that my child should have contracted head lice. The second was to wonder if I still had time to eat my Lunchables. The third was to call my husband.
Now, I only call my husband home for super duper important stuff. For instance, once when my daughter was two, I was vacuuming to the dulcet tones of Freddie Mercury, lost in a blissful trance of how awesome my carpet was about to look, when on a vigorous backswing I felt the unmistakable jolt of the vacuum handle connecting with a two year old’s face at top speed. I don’t do blood under any circumstances, so he needed to get home ASAP.
The only other time was when I saw a wasp. I also don’t do wasps under any circumstances, it was July in Texas, and if I wanted to not die of heatstroke, my husband had to come kill it so I could get into the apartment. Yes, it was actually a skeeter eater, and no, my husband wasn’t thrilled that we had to pay $200.00 for the crappy single-paned window he broke while eliminating the threat, but what if it had been a wasp? Exactly.