This morning, Me Too and I headed out for a bit of lunch and a couple of haircuts, typical mother-daughter stuff.
Now we are toe-ing the line along the Walk of Shame from the salon to the drug store.
Parenting FAIL entry #6256323: head lice.
The ladies at the salon were perfectly nice. Kids get it often, they said. We’ve seen sooo many cases lately. But, oooohhh there, well now, it isn’t just the child….(Insert quick recovery here) but we see it all the time! No problem! Let me disinfect this comb and come back with the shampoo that has a skull and crossbones on it.Aside in a low voice: Cancel my other afternoon clients, will you?
I had noticed that Me Too seemed to have a little dandruff. I figured it was probably dry scalp because the air has turned so dry, and I was probably washing her hair too much. That’s what I get for figuring, I suppose.
I purchased the necessary scary looking “shampoo” aka poison. The sales clerk wrapped in a paper bag. That was a nice touch. I was still kind of in shock and not really embarrassed until then, but when she put the goods in the Bag o’Shame used for pregnancy tests and feminine products I suddenly realized what we were up against.
I have to tell this to the preschool. I have to ask the nurse at my son’s school to check his head and then inform his teacher, too. Oh, this will be fun, filling all those expectations that foreigners are dirty. Groovy.
I guess I’ve matured a bit, since I’m just focusing on what needs to be done and not really beating myself over it.
I suspect someone else will do that for me, anyway.
I sent a preemptive message to HRH, since I’m pretty sure I know how he is going to react to this. His answer was predictable enough, “What does this mean for me? You don’t wash the sheets often enough!!”
Where to start? I’d like to go with: 1) This is not about YOU. 2) We are dealing with lice, not bedbugs. Neither of which will are caused by not washing sheets often enough.
I suppose I will have to find some other strategy, though. Like perhaps suggesting he sleep in a non-imaginary lice infested environment while I kill these critters.
But, yes, I am washing sheets now as I type.
Fortunately, Me Too does not understand any of this. I imagine she won’t enjoy the nit comb, but that’s probably about it. The ladies cut her hair and braided it for her and cooed over her as usual. Which in retrospect may not have been a great idea….
So now since we are officially members of the dirty underclass, I’m wondering if there will be any perks involved. I expect to receive a few sweat stained wife beaters (sleeveless undershirts) in the mail promptly, along with some daisy dukes so short the pockets hang out the bottom. These will no doubt look excellent with my cellulite.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go practice yelling, “Stellllaaaaa!!!” at the bottom of the stairs. While I scratch my head and pick my nose, of course.
So it turns out Me First is infested as well. Super.
I e-mailed HRH and his reaction was, “Whatever you do make sure you don’t tell him!”
Of course I’ve already told him. It makes absolutely no sense not to. I will need his cooperation. I’ve already buzzed off his hair, and there will be special shampoo, separate towels, and nit combs in the immediate future. Plus I’ll be washing his pajamas and pillow case every day, and he is off 給食当番, lunch duty, until he is free of nasty bug larvae. Apparently just doing it without the hat is not an option.
Screwed up country. But anyway
The point is the boy is gonna notice. And I am not going to lie to him, especially when there is no hidden incentive to me. (I’m winking at you, Santa Claus.)
This reminds me of how, until recently, it was very common for families to decide not to tell someone when they were terminally ill. I can’t begin to fathom why this would be ethically okay, but I guess it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump from “Nah, son. You don’t have lice.”
Let me go on record here: I would like to know about both terminal illness and lice. Oh, wait, I’ve already done that second thing.
Interesting aside: I went to MIL’s to borrow her clippers. Of course I had to tell her why I needed them. Her response?
“Oh, well, it can’t be helped. Your husband travels out of the country a lot and you know how dirty foreigners are.”
Insert crunching sound as I bit my tongue here.
Thank GOD I have a Corona cooling in the fridge.