Lice PTSD For The Holidays

Ahhh. It’s the New Year. The Holidays are over and the kids are back in school. It’s time to sit back and reflect on the previous year, and make plans for the new one. As I reflect on this past Holiday season I realize that I may be suffering from a mental illness I will name “Lice Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

Are you worried you may have suffered from Lice PTSD this past holiday season too? The first step is to recognize the signs, then seek treatment (although what the treatment is, I’m not sure. Maybe a Xanax? A stiff drink?).
 

Signs you suffered from Lice PTSD over the Holidays:

• All holiday guests were given a wet comb through before entering your house (because you know that the best way to find those fast little buggers is by dousing them with conditioner and combing the hair with a nit-pick).
• Your new found head lice knowledge was the go-to conversation starter at all holiday functions. For instance, did you know… Head lice will not infest your home the way fleas or bed bugs can (they only live about 24-48 off of a host); lice is generally spread from head-to-head contact; lice reproduce sexually with mating lasting an hour; a female louse will lay around 6 to 10 eggs per day after mating once; a louse can hold its breath for up to 8 hours.
• You correctly identified this picture as a male head louse:
  
  

  

  "Male human head louse" by Gilles San Martin - originally posted to Flickr. Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0 http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:
  Male_human_head_louse.jpg#mediaviewer/File:Male_human_head_louse.jpg

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
• You treated, nit-picked, and checked your head daily for lice but it would not stop itching. Finally, during a Google search you found a condition that you were convinced you had. Upon further investigation, you discovered that it is a psychosomatic condition. You regret including the diagnosis on your year-end newsletter.
• When making your Christmas cards, you note the family pictures before lice (heads touching) and after lice (heads as far away as possible).
• Family members began to avoid sitting near you because you were known to shriek “no touching heads!” every time you saw two young cousins with their heads close together. On one occasion you were seen elbowing grandma and pole-vaulting over Aunt Ethel to separate your daughter and her cousin quietly playing Barbies in the corner.
• You replaced all brushes in your house with nit combs which you store in individual zip-lock bags in the freezer even at your mother’s house next to the turkey.
• You sported the Sinead O’Connor in all holiday pictures.
• When reading 'Twas Night Before Christmas to the children you recited: “not a creature was stirring, not even a louse” as a little prayer.
• Before leaving your in-laws, you quietly put all pillows and cushions in trash bags on the back porch and told them to keep them there for a few days just in case.
• You have decided to homeschool instead of sending your kids back to school after the holiday break.

And, the number one sign you may have suffered from lice PTSD this holiday season:

• You composed a blog about it.

I wish you a lice-free 2015! Please share if you or someone you love may be suffering from Lice PTSD…

There Is A Louse In My House #drasticmeasures #amNOTwriting

I've been behind on my NaNoWriMo word count but nothing a few word sprints couldn't solve… But, when you have three children, you never know what surprises might keep you from your plans. This time, it was lice.

Remember my blog post a while back titled "I Wasn't Prepared for THIS!"? Well, add lice to the list of things I did not think of when my children were just a twinkle in my eye. More specifically, the idea that I, at 38 years old, would be experiencing my first case of head lice.

For all of you out there who have not had the wonderful experience of head lice in 2014 – it is not like in the 80s when a treatment of Nix would knock those suckers, eggs and all, out of the park. No, those of us inclined to put pesticides in our hair will soon learn that these lice are immune to it. So, in a word, it’s useless. A fine tooth comb and some time (HOURS A DAY) to sift through your hair is really the only sure fire way. There are natural alternative on the market (like Fairytale Goodbye Lice), and certain shampoos (like Coal Tar Shampoo), certain conditioners (like Suave Coconut Conditioner), and good ol' fashion home remedies (like mayonnaise and saran wrap), plus blow drying and flat ironing. Ultimately, though, you still have to sit and pick those suckers out with a comb every single day. Which I've been doing. Not to mention all the laundry which is a completely separate blog post for me because as some of you know I have been using a Laundromat since March even though I have a fancy washer and dryer in my basement (we have gas/propane/plumbing issues that are going to be solved “any day now”).

Anywho, my excuse for not writing this week thus far is that I have been busy de-lousing. Going  slightly crazy as one does when fear of infestation takes over. One might say I went a little more than slightly crazy when I was alone picking through my long locks, imagining the lice taunting me like the mucus guy in those commercials: "We’re setting up shop in here! You’ll never find us in all these tangles!” That’s when I found myself reaching for the scissors….

Drastic times call for drastic measures

 Take that you lousy louse!

I have to admit it looks cute in a it-looks-like-you-cut-your-own-hair kind of way... More pictures to come (after I find a proper hair dresser to fix it and give me a good dye job). Now off to write (after another trip to the laundromat).

Igniting Or Extinguishing The Creative Spark?

I am on the brink. If this is my "make it or break it year" then the month of November, National Novel Writing Month, must be my "make it or break it month." So, today, five days away from NaNoWriMo — I am on the brink.

Perched on the edge of the brink, has led me to extreme introspection. Beyond the obvious "can I do this?" I have also asked myself: "why have I never done this before?" If, at various points in my much younger life — high school, college, young adulthood (i.e. before kids) — I have failed to ignite the creative spark within me, how will I suddenly be able do it now?

A few weeks ago I attended WAMFest (Words And Music Festival) at Fairleigh Dickson University with numerous young college students on the brink of either igniting or extinguishing their own creative sparks. The presenters I saw (Neil Burger, Neil Gaiman, and Salman Rushdie) had all begun reaching for and ultimately achieving their creative goals at a fairly young age. I wondered, what about them gave them the courage to ignite their creative sparks early on and why didn't I? 

Ultimately, I think, I just wasn't ready before — I was too immature. But now, being only slightly more mature, I am ready. Now is my time. This is my year. I am on the brink.

But, what about my daughter who, at ten years old, also sits on the brink — on the edge of childhood and adolescence? Will she have the courage to ignite her creative spark? And, what will I do to ignite it or extinguish it?

I fear that we, normal well-meaning parents, do more to extinguish the creative spark in our children than ignite it. Maybe we are afraid that by signing up our daughter for all the acting classes she's been requesting, we are setting her up for a life of disappointment or failure. Our son may show artistic talent but instead of signing him up for art classes, we sign him up for soccer because it's good exercise. Maybe out of a misguided sense of protection, we'd rather snuff the creative spark in our children then send them out into the big bad world and have someone else do it. Maybe we'd rather our son pursue a career he has no passion for than be a 35 year old living in our basement waiting for the muse. Maybe we'd rather our daughter have a career than wait on tables in some NYC dive while she waits for that big break. Are we doing our children a horrible disservice by never allowing them to burn bright and achieve their creative dreams? Or are we just being realistic?

If I had majored in Creative Writing in college and spent my young adulthood penning trite novels and short stories — where would I be today? Would I still be sitting here on the brink? Would I already be there or would I have long given up trying?

There is no way to really know. I just trust that everything I've done up until now has brought me here and since I am happy where I am, all the what-ifs are meaningless.

However, there are no what-ifs for my children. Yet. I hope that I can help them achieve their own goals whatever they may be and not extinguish them.

How about you? What do you do to ignite or extinguish your own or your children's creative sparks?

Ignite the light and let it shine?

A Daily Tribute Through Reading

My family is big on reading. Take a trip with any member of my family, and you'd better bring several books because that is what we will be doing: Reading. I think my grandmother was the driving force behind our love of books. She was the one who gave us many of the books that we cherish today. She was the one who introduced me to so many books -- books like the Secret Garden or Jane Eyre I read because of her energetic descriptions of them. As I grew up, I loved to discuss books with her even though we didn't always agree (she being conservative and me being, well, not). And try as she might I never got into Wind in the Willows or Little House on the Prairie but did pass these books along to my children.

When I was pregnant with my first child, my grandmom gave me the book, The Read Aloud Handbook by Jim Trelease -- lauding this book as essential to my child's upbringing. I read this book and refereed to it often while my daughter was little -- reading many of the recommended titles including Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little to her when she was just three years old. Reading aloud to our children continues to be a cherished part of our daily routines. We have read The Little House on the Prairie; The Wind in the Willows; The Secret Garden; Heidi; Anne of Green Gables; numerous Beverly Cleary books; Roald Dahl; almost the entire Magic Tree House Series; The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe; and recently we've begun the Harry Potter series.

My grandmother passed away a year ago but when I see the love of reading that my 9 year-old daughter has, I feel my grandmom. That spark was started by her and lives on in my family every day. It lives on when I can't get my daughter to do anything because she can't/won't put her book down. It lives on when the last thing my daughter sees at night are the words in a book and the first thing she does in the morning is pick up her book. My daughter makes a little tribute to my grandmother everyday through her love of reading.

Thanks GGMom for being a wonderful example to your children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. We miss you and think of you daily when we pick up a book!

(If you haven't read The Read Aloud Handbook I highly recommend it, link below:)



The Read-Aloud Handbook: Seventh Edition

I Wasn't Prepared For THIS!

I thought I was prepared for children, back when I was a stupid 27 year-old. I was a big sister, a babysitter; some of my friends had kids. I managed to squeak out a degree in Psychology with a minor in Human Development and Family Studies. I read mommy-manuals. Besides, I liked kids. I understood kids. I knew they’d be messy. I knew they’d be loud. I knew they’d be unruly at times. But I knew how to handle it all, I was prepared.

Insert a big-fat mommy-guffaw here: HA!! Hahahaha!

This morning I awoke to my third consecutive morning of snotty, hacking kids which means following children around with tissues, hand sanitizer  and Lysol, trying to sound motherly and soothing while I have kid-snot on my hands and spittle on my face.

Ha! Snotty Lottie seemed like a joke! Joke's on me!

Why was I not prepared for this amount of bodily fluids? Where were the warnings on how to handle the volumes of bodily fluid I alone would be responsible for cleaning?

So here you are, mommies-to-be. Here you are, all those contemplating procreation. Here are the warnings you will not get anywhere else:

Become one with pee, because it will be everywhere.
You will hold your beautiful newborn daughter in your arms. Reveling in how angelic she is, your heart will expand in ways you never thought possible. You will start to feel warm all over. Oh, wait, it’s wet and warm. It’s pee! Because somehow those little infant diapers are unable able to hold your daughter’s pee! Every single time she pees she will very likely pee straight through the diaper! Every single time your sweet newborn son wakes wailing in the middle of the night (and it will be often), he will be wet. The little wisps of hair on his head will be matted down with piss. The tips of the booties that his feet are swimming in will be soaked with urine. His bassinet, soaked through the waterproof pads straight to the mattress.

It won’t stop at potty training, either, just so you are aware. Your son will RARELY make the toilet even if you have him sit, his little KINDERGARTEN voice will come from the bathroom, “Mom, I accidentally peed on my pants again!” as the bus pulls up in front of the house. And girls! It is actually possible for a girl to miss. No lie. You’ll sit there in front of your little 2 or 3 year old excited for her as she pee-pees in the potty and it’ll shoot out and hit you in the face. WHAT?

Oh, there is an end in sight. My doctor told us that boys can stop wetting the bed at 8, even as old as 12!

So, you've got a handle on pee. You tell yourself that pee really isn't all that bad, it’s supposedly sterile anyways…. But be prepared for poo:

You will see, analyze, and discuss poo more than you ever imagined.
Do you remember having real discussions with your spouse? How you discussed the universe and your place in it? You discussed the meaning of life and religion. You discussed politics. Well, no more. Now you will discuss poop. From the very first black-tar meconium poop that you have to scrap off your infant’s tiny tushie to the green and mustardy breast-milk poo. You’ll hold the poo up to your computer screen and compare it. You’ll sniff it. Discussing the smell, “It’s kinda sweet, isn't it?”

You’ll be amazed at how sometimes the poo manages to blast right out, missing the diaper and heading straight for the baby’s back. You will name the poo-types, laying claim to them – “This one is a rock, I’ll take this one.” Or “Oh, this one is a blow-out, you handle it.”

You’ll change your baby’s diaper, prepared for the pee to shoot out because you've already made one with the pee, when your baby makes a cute little bunched up face and a big fat fart-poo will shoot right out at you.

Again, it will only get worse with potty-training. You’ll be getting your little three year old daughter ready for bed, pull down her pants and out will roll a big fat turd. And she’ll just smile at you. Your three year old son will hold his poop for a week rather than poo on the potty but one day while he is in the bathtub it’ll slip out in a fury. And continue slipping as you lift him out. Plop onto the floor before your foot has time to react and squish, you've stepped in human feces.

But it won’t stop there, you’ll sort your 8 year-old's laundry and put your hands in something and throw up a little in your mouth because you know no matter how many times you wash and sanitize your hand the rest of the day it will still smell like shit!

Speaking of throwing up in your mouth, those with a weak-stomach need not apply to this job of parenthood because, you guessed it:

Get used to vomit!
You’re slightly prepared for spit-up – you were given all those spit rags and bibs at your shower, even that cute little pink bib that says “Spit Happens.” Where’s the mommy version? The one that covers your shoulders arms and back – because that’s what you will very likely need! Spit happens alright and rarely does it happen on the cute embroidered spit-up rag. It happens down your back, in your hair, or straight over everything onto a pile on your floor. Sweet.

You’ll get used to the spit-up; regardless, it’ll stop at about the age of one. But one day while your child is just a toddler you will be awakened in the middle of the night and find her covered in an implausible amount of thick, chunky, vomit – in her hair, in between her fingers, down her jammies, puddled in her crib, and oozing out the slats onto the carpet. She’ll be utterly distraught at what just happened to her, you’ll want to scoop her up and comfort her but you have absolutely no idea where to begin. As the stomach bug goes racing through every member of the household you will find yourself hunched over the toilet wishing for the days when all you had to clean up was some projectile milk spit up.

Should I stop there? Or should I relay some more snot-stories? I haven’t even touched on pet messes! How about you? You got some good turd-tales? Any vomit sonnets? Any poo-parables?

I suppose it doesn't really matter, my warnings, because I know the truth: You, expectant parent, will not believe me. You will think me silly. You will think I am exaggerating. You will think that it will never happen to you. You will think that you are prepared. Furthermore, I will soon forget myself. One day my daughter, with her belly bulging, will look to me for advice. I will tell her about the wonders of holding her newborn infant in her arms. The milk-drunk face with tiny drops of spit on his lips, falling asleep in her arms still making sucking noises. I won’t talk of projectile vomit or poopy blow-outs. Even if I did, she will look up at me with those same big innocent brown eyes she had as a toddler and say, “Not my baby.”