Attack of the Hair Bugs

A bit of background about The Wife: she's a pretty tough broad. Been through cancer herself and of course mine. Two c-sections. She's been uprooted and moved twice. Two cute but somewhat pesky kids. Has to deal with my sorry ass on a daily basis. As I said, not too much fazes her.

So imagine my surprise when I get a call this afternoon and hear her sound like never before. Her voice is breaking and all I can make out is "It's the Girl. There's a problem at school."

A million scenarios immediately run through my head. DId I miss an earthquake? She bite another kid? She eat three fruit roll ups for lunch again?"

With The Girl, it could really be anything.

She continues.

"Sit down for this. She has head lice."

Ok, head lice. Certainly not words one wants to hear. Probably a notch either above or below public lice or crabs I imagine, depending on your age bracket and social status.

Pain in the ass? Yes. End of the world? Doubtful.

The Wife goes on.

"I'm freaking out. I don't know what to do. I don't think I can handle this."

A bit more background on the Wife: she's not a big bug person. In fact, she has a crazy insane reaction to bugs of any kind. Which kind of sucks for me considering we live in the damn woods.

So I tell her to calm down, take it easy, it will be ok.

One hour later I call back to see how things are.

Her: "Can't talk now, I'm in the doctors office."

Me: "Did you make an appointment?"

Her: "Appointment? Are you insane?"

And so it was shortly confirmed that the Girl did in fact have a few 2-3 mm (that's millimeters, people) lice. She calls me on the way home.

"I think we have to move. Tonight. And leave all our belonings home."

So I tell her once again to calm down, everything is going to be fine. I head out to a business dinner. Halfway through, I get The Call.

"You know I'd never do this but I really think I need you to come home."

So, I head home. I *really* enjoy The History of Howard Stern on Sirius, because I have a strong sense of what I'm coming home to. I drive 22 miles an hour the entire way.

Halfway home, phone rings, it's my buddy Dave. Dave is coming this weekend to visit for a week. He tells me a story about his night.

"Dude, I had a business dinner tonight. About halfway through I get a text from my wife. She NEVER texts me -- maybe once in her life. My immediate thought: something is wrong with the kids. I excuse myself, look at my iphone and it's a three word message, 'Summer Has Lice."

Word is out. It's' public. We're in full defcom four mode now.

Me: "Yeah dude, I was going to have The Wife break the news to you before I did. Don't worry, everything will be cool by the time you get here."

I conclude the call and pull in the driveway. Go in the front door and my house has been converted into a .. surgery room.

She's got a little mini bed out, she's set up a super bright light, she's wearing magnifying glasses on her head like she's about to perform neurosurgery and her "patient" (my five year old) is splayed out beneath her. I say hello and ...

"Do not talk. I am concentrating. Thisi requires concentration. Tremendous concentration."


I don't talk. I don't move a muscle. I do look around however and note that the house is turned inside out. Every blanket, pillow and head baring surface has been stripped and in some cases, eradicated.

The phone rings. It's a mother from The Girl's class, checking in (four other kids have them too). Other phone rings, it's a nurse (a nurse?) calling with instructions. Phone rings again; yet another mother. It's the mother of all kaffeeklatches. High stakes drama.

Defcom five mode.

Worse than Defcom five, actually; it's World War Three. Only the enemy isn't a nazi but rather a 2 millimeter mite.

It's 10:15 pm as I type and things have calmed down.

I've learned that we have a gameplan for tomorrow. Get the kids out of bed early (the Boy is clean by the way), another round of head shampoos, another round of combing, another round of washing, just to make doubly sure.

I'm on standby to pick the Girl up if she doesn't pass muster at school as the Mrs. is going to a "professional" (I kid you not) to get herself checked out.

I tell you: we're in a full fledged war, people. But I have a feeling the good guys are going to win this one.

I just know it.

Damn my head itches.