Life Lessons from the Lousy

Yesterday I was braiding my youngest daughter's hair into two long french braids when I noticed the smallest speck of movement at the base of one of her strands of brown hair.  I paused and quietly leaned closer to inspect the speck a bit more carefully and noticed it moving nimbly across her scalp. I pinched it with my thumb and forefinger and my daughter and I examined it together.

"It's just a little ant," she said with more hope than conviction.

"I'm not sure..." I replied hesitantly.  We consulted the almighty google which confirmed our worst fears.  She had a case of head lice.  

Several years ago, we had already lived through this scenario.  She and her sister each had head lice that were resistant to all forms of treatment.  We doused their heads in strong pesticides and combed and combed and combed some more.  Yet, every time they were checked again at school, another louse would be found and another day of school and work was missed for more treatment and more combing.  I was on the brink of losing my mind when the lovely elementary health secretary recommended we use mayonnaise. In desperation, we slathered their heads like they were turkey sandwiches and let them sit...for hours...   And that seemed to finally do the trick.

Yesterday, I did not have the energy to do the full out response to head lice.  We started with the mayo on the head, but when my oldest daughter found a bug crawling in my hair, I felt a silent desperation.  How on earth would I comb the nits out of my own hair?  My daughter was barely willing to do a cursory examination of my scalp and upon finding a bug reacted with disgust and an unspoken declaration that her duties in lice extermination ended there.  I again consulted google and found the Sugar and Spice No More Lice salon that guaranteed successful eradication of the critters from innocent heads.  I called and made an appointment without even asking about the cost - who cares in situations like these?  Desperate times call for desperate measures indeed.

My youngest daughter and I arrived at a lovely salon that was cheerful and colorful in decor.  We were greeted by a kind woman wearing a headlamp and smile.  I half listened as she explained the process and the fees and finally settled into a chair to have my scalp thoroughly checked.  Blessedly, I was found to be, miraculously, louse free.  Daughter 3 had a mild case with "only around 100 or so eggs" glued to her hair by industrious mother lice.  The treatment began and so did my education about the nature of lice.  We learned they prefer clean hair and dislike mint.  They cannot jump or fly, but "super lice" are a bit more mobile than their less "super' counterparts.  We discussed the mayo treatment we had used in the past and she said that you have to leave the mayo on for a really long time because lice can hold their breath for a really long time.  Evolution and, I think, stubbornness on the part of the lice has allowed them to actually respond to submersion by holding their breath for 30 minutes or more!  As she went on with these fun facts about lice, I was struck by how resilient this little pest truly is.

Today, I was was lounging on a beach chair while my two youngest daughters had swimming lessons.  The sky was the most beautiful of blues and the sun was shining brightly.  There was a bit of a breeze that made the air a bit chilly, but lying with a beach towel across my lap allowed me to feel comfortable.  A butterfly lazily flew by and then landed lightly on my foot and rested there for at least five minutes.  "This," I thought, "is how summer should be." 

I should have felt peace and bliss and I did for a bit.  Then, in spite of myself, I felt myself pulled under by a strong current of sadness.

My little butterfly friend.

Every day this summer, I have been operating as though life is plugging along just as it was and should be.  I wake up and drink coffee, wake my girls up, run them to their activities, spend time at the community pool, make homemade dinners, and keep house.  I have loved summers because they allow me to pretend to be an "at home mom" - something I've aspired to be but have never been able to afford for real.  However, things are not as they should be.  We live in a nice house in a neighborhood of strangers in a city that is not our home.  All choices I made, albeit under duress, but choices nonetheless.  

No longer do I enjoy the sight of my kids and the neighbor kids walking between homes, playing as though they owned the neighborhood.  Instead, we have to orchestrate and plan the play that was once so spontaneous.  It's amazing what 22 miles and 30 minutes can do to a child's social life.  

No longer do I have long afternoon visits with one of my good friends.  Our schedules no longer align, I no longer live in a convenient spot for an impromptu visit, and the events of the past year have changed our friendship.  We are still friends...good friends...close friends...best friends even...  But things have changed.  

No longer do I walk among the community that feels like home and feel safe.  I am hyper-vigilant for a silent attacks of judgment and condemnation, or at the least, pity.  

What I once took so for granted is lost to me now.  The losses could be enumerated for paragraphs that could fill a large notebook.  Life has changed. Sometimes that makes me sad.  Sometimes I just really miss my old life.

I recently saw a meme on facebook that said this:

You drown not by falling into a river, but by staying in it. ~ Paulo Coelho

I read that bit of inspiration with only a little bit of despair.  You see, I've been trying to climb out of this river for months.  I have been plotting, planning, scheming, self-examining, and participating.  I have devised fitness plans and nutrition plans and made plans to connect with friends.  I laugh, I find joy, I show compassion.  I have been clinging to the rocks of this river and trying to pull myself to shore and still the current pulls me under.  Some days, all I can do is follow the example of lice, and take a deep breath and hold on for dear life with hope that the waters will recede and that life will continue anew.  

And they will.  And I will.  I just wish I knew how much longer I have to hold my breath.