I Am Not an Animal

“Are you *#@%$ ing kidding me?!”  I shouted into the phone at the hubby. 

“The day care called 10 minutes after I dropped her off.  You need to get her now. I’ll get home as soon as I can.”  He tried to console me, but it wasn’t working.

I was sweating.  Breathing heavy.  Panicked. 

What could possibly push me this far over the edge?  

One word: LICE.

When I arrive at the school Spicy Girl has been corralled in a corner of the room, far away from the other kids.  She knows something is wrong.  I scoop up all of her belongings (which have been placed in plastic bags), scoot her out of the school, and take her directly to my colleague who second’s as a nurse for a children’s summer camp.  

“Yup, she’s got it.”  

“Crap.”

She gave me a list of things to do—from inspection, to washing, to removal—and then the steps necessary to clean the house.  This was going to be a long day.  

First stop, the pharmacy.   I roam the isles, and can’t find anything I’m looking for.  I go to the counter, and the pharmacist points me to aisle 4. 

I go to aisle 4. I can’t find it.  

I go back and ask for help again.  This time, the pharmacist comes out from behind the counter and points to it—on the bottom shelf, next to the treatments for warts and athlete’s foot.  Warts, athlete’s foot and lice. If plague had an over-the-counter treatment, it would be there too. (Not for nothing, but do they really need to put it on the bottom shelf, making us drop to the floor as if begging for forgiveness for our “affliction?”) 

Once home, I turned the bathroom into a treatment center, and to make it fun for SG, I hooked up the portable DVD player with holiday movies. Things worked out well.  With one exception… now whenever “Santa Claus is Coming To Town” comes on, Spicy Girl sits in front of me, tilts her head, and hands me a magnifying glass.