The bugs

See them wiggle, see them creep, see them crawl. Imagine them crawling all over your body and through your hair. Can't you feel their little legs walking across your skin? Itch itch itch. Scratch scratch scratch. Shudder!

We have (had) them. Unruly's school called Friday with the news no parent wants to hear.

"Your child has lice. You need to come pick her up. Now."

LICE!? OMG!! Gross gross gross! I am absolutely MORTIFIED!! We're not dirty people! She bathes and washes her hair EVERY night! I'm probably one of the cleanest people I know. I'm so organized and clean I have little spasms of panic when things are out of place or someone left a coffee ring or milk drip on the counter. I cannot stand disorganization or dirtiness. I'm so bad my family accuses me of being OCD.

Now imagine how someone who may be a tad bit OCD about cleanliness reacts when she finds out her kid has bugs. In her hair. And probably on every last bit of clothing and bedding she owns. It's a full-out battle.

We went through nearly an entire jug of laundry soap and at least four full hot water tanks washing everything that kid has touched. Including my sheets and blankets.

She got to sit with insecticide on her head and sit again, for hours, while her father combed through her hair seeking nits.

Ugh. Just writing about it is making my head crawl with imagined bugs. I made my hubs check ME for lice and nits because Unruly likes to climb into bed with me and snuggle. I just KNEW she snuggled those nasty little critters right onto my own head.

He found none, thank goodness!

So, in 7 to 10 days we get to dump chemicals on her head again, just in case we missed any of the nasty little critters.

Dirty, dirty, dirty

Mortification is: Finding out your child was sent to the nurse because her hands were "dirty." Nothing makes you feel like a no-good, lousy parent faster than a teacher who thinks you sent your kid to school caked in filth.

For the record Unruly's hands do look filthy. They look pretty disgusting and her fingernails are black. She looks like she's been digging around under the hood of a car and thrusting her sweet little hands into grease and grime. I've seen mechanics with better looking hands.

But in truth, the kid was playing with the black walnuts that are falling into our yard. Gallons and gallons of odorous green balls with tasty nuts at the center became her toys. Those who grew up around black walnuts know: The juice in those green outer coverings stain like crazy and the blacker the outer coverings become, the worse the juice stains. That juice is used to stain wood and fabric and all kinds of other stuff. It's proven to be a very, very effective dye.

She and one of her friends spent an evening smashing them and handling them and playing with them. Both girls came back with black hands that no amount of scrubbing with every cleanser available in my house would remove. We tried. Oh, we tried. But I stopped short of making her soak her hands in gasoline in an attempt to remove the stain. It just wasn't worth it to me. The kid could live with blackened hands, it wasn't hurting her one bit.

I never imagined someone would be offended by her stained appendages.

She went to school with "dirty" hands. Dirty hands that really were the cleanest they've probably been in awhile, but stained nonetheless. The stain wears off, eventually. I know this from personal experience. I've had those black walnut stained hands.

But she got sent to the nurse because the teacher thought she was a filthy child. Even though the filthy child told the teacher it was black walnut juice and "wouldn't come off." But her teacher didn't listen and sent her to the nurse instead.

I. Am. Mortified. Absolutely mortified.

My brain strikes back

It has become overwhelmingly apparent to me that I am losing my mind. No, really. I'm losing it. As in losing my memory because I'm getting OLD and brain cells are kicking the bucket.

How do I know?

I had to dig out the bolt cutters and cut the combination lock off my gym bag because I couldn't remember the combination. For three days I tried every combination I could pull out of my head. Oh, I remembered several combinations, but for some reason, my brain was accessing memorized combinations from HIGH SCHOOL.

But wait! That's not all! This morning I couldn't remember the PIN for my debit card. That's right. The little four-digit number I've been using for the past 10 years, almost every day. Couldn't remember it to save my life. For some reason, the last four digits of a phone number I had in GRADE SCHOOL kept popping into my head. And then the phone number "867-5309" kept making an unwanted appearance.

It gets better. I opened the dryer four times this morning to take my jeans out so I could get dressed for work. Three of those times the dryer was empty because I took my jeans out the FIRST time I opened it and tossed them on my bed.

I'm surprised I made it to work this morning. Who knows, maybe I'll end up in Canada when I try to get home this afternoon.

Reason #1,753 why parents must have a sense of humor

Tonight was Unruly's first grade orientation. You know, go to the school, find your class and your desk, drop off your supplies and meet the teacher. All pretty basic, straight forward stuff that hopefully will help get the school off to a great start.

Unruly was excited to go. She went swimming for a bit before we had to leave and came in immediately when I called her to get changed. She picked out one of her pretty sun dresses, a dark turquoise number with spaghetti straps and a pair of sandals to match. She even brushed her own hair and gathered up her stuff.

The drive to school is about 20 minutes and we chatted about seeing friends again and being sad that summer is over but excited that school is starting.

I parked, opened my door and turned around to help her get her stuff out of the car. It's a two-door, so maneuvering stuff in and out of the back seat can be a challenge. As she swung her legs out of the booster seat and out of the car I caught a glimpse of something I shouldn't have.

Oh. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.

"Unruly! Where are your panties?!" A blank look crossed her face. She had no idea she wasn't wearing panties.

I frantically dug through the pile of discarded clothes on the backseat and floor, hoping against all hope to find a stray pair of panties. No luck. But, I did discover where all of her socks have gone. So, that's one mystery solved.

"Mom, I forgot, I really forgot! I thought I put them on. I don't want to go home!" Figures the poor kid would inherit my lack of short term memory.

"Can you keep your legs closed and not jump around and act like a fool? You don't want anyone to see your girl parts, right?"

She nodded sagely, accepting this task, these rules, as stipulations to go to the orientation.

She did beautifully. She acted like a lady. Kept her legs together, didn't give anyone an eyeful and constantly looked at me for approval of her behavior.

I wonder how many parents have unknowingly brought their first-graders to orientation commando?

Drool and goosebumps

What's the best way in the whole wide world to start your day? Coffee? Maybe. Getting to sleep in? Well, a close second. Sex? I plead the fifth.

The absolutely best way to start your day with a smile is to go to the dentist! With your six-year-old in tow! WOO HOO! Now we're talking about all kinds of memorable fun.

The dentist's office we go to has a very, very nice lobby. Little water fountain. Nicely decorated. Fake electric fireplace. Comfy leather seats. Up-to-date magazines that are actually decent publications instead of something stupid that NO ONE reads. The works.

Except they have completely overlooked one thing that no doctor's office should be without: A kiddie corner with toys and kid books. Or at least, a TV. Because Unruly is bored easily, and when she's bored, she entertains herself, which is rarely a good thing and can involve playing in the pretty little water fountain (read: drooling into it so she can see her spit come up over the waterfall again and again). Or turning the fake fireplace on and off and on and off and on and off......*sigh* All while I'm completely engrossed in the latest edition of Bon Appetit. Do you feel the effective parenting going on yet? I thought so.

"Unruly. Stop it. Now." she ignores me, as usual and continues drooling into the fountain. Which is actually quite funny, but I try not to laugh because it wouldn't be mature. No sense encouraging her. (I know, I know. It's gross. But it was still funny. And probably something I'd do if no one was watching.)

"Unruly. I'm going to beat you with your own arm if you don't stop it." More ignoring. WOW! I'm feeling especially effective this morning!

She is now papering the pretty leather seats with magazines. Because every seat needs its own issue, you know.

"I'm going to let them pull ALL of your teeth out if you don't stop it!" The ignoring continues. If I didn't know better, I'd think she has a hearing problem.

Finally, I'm ready to head back into the Dreaded Room of Dental Doom. Did I mention I HATE dentists? I do. Hate. I grip the armrest so hard I leave dents in the steel as the tech turns my mouth into what feels like hamburger. It is quite a disturbing experience for me.

Unruly sits in a chair. I obviously can't leave her to her own devices in the lobby. We already know how that goes! She sits beautifully. For about 2 minutes. Max. If that.

I feel something crawling up the leg of my pants. I can't say anything, my mouth is full of sharp instruments and a tech's hand. The something has reached my knee and is proceeding up my thigh. It tickles. I want to laugh, and I'm horrified. But, again, mouth full of stuff. I hear a giggle and the little thing on my leg wiggles. It's Unruly's hand! Up my pants! While I'm in the dentist's chair. Oh. My. God. I HAVEN'T SHAVED MY LEGS IN A WEEK!!! THE TECH IS GOING TO SEE MY HAIRY LEGS!

"Gag blech gurgle gurgle blah gag sputter sputter!"

Another giggle from Unruly.

"Gag snort. Stop! Gurgle." I feel the little hand retreat from my pants.

She plops back down in the chair. And starts pulling those little plastic bib thingies from a box near her seat. She places a few neatly on the chair and lays down on them so she can cover her little body with even more. She's a little spit-napkin hangar!

I glare at her as best I can from my horizontal position beneath the too-bright light. She sees me glare and grins back. The little imp.

"What. Are. You. Doing?" I hiss loudly at her while the tech is fetching my x-rays.

"I'm cold. I have goosebumps. See?" She holds up an arm. Indeed. She does have goosebumps. It is cold. "I was covering up with the big napkins. They are warm."

"Put them back. Now." I didn't think she'd listen. I really didn't. She usually doesn't.

To the next victim who winds up in that particular dentist's chair, I'm sorry.

Because that little yellow napkin thingie around your neck? I think it was on my kid's butt. So sorry.

I'm pretty sure the dentist's staff was more than happy to see us leave this morning. Probably happier than I was to leave.

Swamp mouth

Anybody have any idea what it costs to put the tin grin in your daughter's crooked-as-a-picket-fence mouth?

Let me share: About $2,500. That doesn't include the bi-monthly visits to make sure everything is just hunky dory. Add that cost to approximately three years of listening to Wild complain about the metal in her mouth and how much she hates it and you'd think the resulting straight, beautiful smile would be worth it all in the end, right?

Well...right. Kind of. Her smile is gorgeous. Beautiful straight teeth that make a momma proud and should make her want to flash that grin at everyone.

Except she absolutely refuses to remember to brush them. And she refuses to remember to wear her retainer. So, those $2,500+ teeth are now becoming crooked again and they have an attractive fuzzy yellow hue adorning their should-be-pearly surface. Talking close to her smells a whole lot like my Dumpster on a hot summer day. There was one incident during the brace face days when she managed to get a whole peanut stuck beneath the metal gridwork in her mouth. And it remained there for nearly two weeks because she was too lazy to get a toothpick. The stink was incredible. I thought something had died in there.

How in the hell am I supposed to convince a 15-year-old how very important oral hygiene is? Huh? How? I can't hold her down and brush her teeth for her, like I do with Unruly. I can't force her to wear the retainer every night, because she'll just end up taking it out despite my most noble efforts. I don't even know if the darn thing fits any more because it's been so long since she's worn it and her teeth are no longer nice and straight.

This is so very, extremely frustrating. I feel like I'm talking and she's just nodding to keep me happy. I'm thinking just tossing that money into the fireplace last winter probably would have been more productive.

Any suggestions to convince a teenager (who knows it all, just in case you were wondering) to brush her own freaking teeth? Public humiliation doesn't work, I've tried and she just throws the famous eye roll in my direction. I've tried telling her no boy is going to want to get ANYWHERE near her toxic mouth and she doesn't seem to mind so much. Begging doesn't work and I feel like a fool doing it any way. Daily reminders don't work because as soon as the words come out of my mouth, she's already forgotten.

I'd hate to see those teeth just rot and fall out, but I guess at least they'd fall out in a nice, straight line. *sigh* Oh, what's a mom to do?

Oh, the things you find

Way back when, a long, long time ago, before kids and a husband, I actually kept my car clean. Wash. Wax. Vacuum. Windex. Armor All. The works every week. It smelled good, it looked good. There wasn't anything weird growing under the seats and everything was neatly stashed where I could find it. I even alphabetized my CDs at one time.

I've had my current car for seven years now and I think I've washed it maybe four times. And I can count on less than one hand how many times I've actually scrubbed the interior. There is hay and straw covering the bottom of my trunk and it's been there going on six years now. You'd think I'd get tired of hauling hay into the house on the bottom of grocery bags and vacuum the stuff up. Instead, I tossed a few floor mats over the hay and called it good. Can you say L.A.Z.Y.?

I couldn't stand it any more. I was tired of listening to the empty soda cans bang against the empty bottles with every turn, every stop. When I got lost in East St. Louis and couldn't find my area map among the coloring books, pictures, socks and fast food bags, I knew something had to be done. For those unfamiliar with this area, East St. Louis is considered the Murder Capital of the U.S. Seriously. There are more murders there, per capita, than anywhere else in the U.S. Not a good place to be lost, trust me. Plus, there was a funny smell coming from under the passenger seat and it seemed to be getting worse.

So, once I found my way out of East St. Louis, I found the nearest car wash and began emptying the interior. Wanna know what I found? Do ya, huh? Do ya? Don't worry, I'm going to share!

Ready? Here ya go!
A baggie of something liquid. Not sure what it was at one time but it had chunks and seemed to be becoming a brand-new life form.
An apple that had mummified. Ever see those Apple Head Dolls? It looked a whole lot like that.
A baggie containing funny looking raisins. I'm pretty sure the raisins had begun life in the baggie as grapes.
Smashed Kix and Cheerios everywhere.
A shoe.
A mismatched pair of socks.
A pair of Unruly's Dora the Explorer panties. (What the heck?)
Six coloring books.
A colorful wax blob that had once been a box of Crayons.
An empty oil container. That had spilled. On the carpet. Ever try to clean up spilled motor oil? Can't be done.
A wrench.
Three reporter's notebooks and a bevy of pens.
Two romance novels.
A few newspapers.
Eight empty water bottles and two empty Dr. Pepper cans.
I won't admit to any empty McDonald's or Dairy Queen bags.
My metro east map. With melted crayon goo obscuring a goodly portion of the region.
A few unopened bills. (Oops!)
A fish hook and bobber. Again, what the heck?
A handful of pony tail bands. Guess I don't need those any more.
A bottle of sunscreen.

Hmmm....I guess I should clean the thing out more often.

Out of the mouths

I think I've mentioned Unruly's disdain for all things cloth, yes? The kid hates to wear clothes. She hates shoes. She hates socks. She'd rather be naked, wild and free. As soon as she hits the door after school, the clothes just start falling off her body and she's pretty much nude by the time she's said her 'hellos' and grabbed a snack. I have given up attempting to keep her clothed, at least at home. It's just not worth it to get into an argument with a six-year-old over whether or not she's going to put some clothes on.

Because honestly? I really just don't care.

I figure at some point she'll get tired of stepping in duck poop or on thorns and put some shoes on. I hope that one day she'll realize the bug bites on her butt wouldn't be there if she actually had some clothes on. One day she'll figure it out and get dressed. She could be 10 by that time, but hey, it's not like anyone can see her running nude through the woods at home!

In the meantime, she's naked girl and I was okay with that until this weekend.

As we sat at the dining room table partaking of our evening meal (a dining delight that was completely gluten, preservative and unpronouncable chemical-free), I caught her playing with her ummm....nipple. Right there at the table. No shame.

"Hey, you! What are you doing?" I asked, trying to not sound like I really cared that my daughter was playing with her nipple at the dinner table. Because you know, if she thought I cared and didn't want her to do it, she'd have a second hand up there in a heartbeat, playing the the other one and grinning like a fool.

"Hmmm? Oh. I'm playing with my booby pimple."

I nearly choked on my forkful of steamed veggies without butter.

"Ummmmm....YOUR WHAT?"

"My booby pimple, mom. This thing," she pulls her nipple out further, just so I can get a better look at it. In case I didn't know what a "booby pimple" was. I swallow hard and look at the carpet, concentrating on a grape juice stain, trying really, really hard not to laugh.

"And why are you playing with your booby pimple, sweetheart?"

Unruly gives me this look that I don't think I can quite define, but I felt like she saw me as a complete and total idiot right at that moment.

"Because it feels good," and she goes back to eating.

Simple as that.

Dental Hygiene

Shopping with the kids is always an adventure. Sometimes its a good adventure, sometimes its more like trying to crawl out of a quicksand pit while someone is standing on my head. Recently I took Unruly to Wal-Mart to pick up a few things. She's always making observations about things and people, commenting on them constantly. Ever notice how children have no filter between brain and mouth? What they think is what they say, political correctness be damned. Embarrassment generally follows us from the moment we walk in the door to the moment we load back into the car.

On this latest shopping adventure Unruly spent the trip sitting in the cart. She was in one of her run-around-like-a-maniac phases and I wasn't in the mood to deal with it calmly, so, up into the cart and on with the belt to snug her in. I wonder how long I'm going to be able to do that? I don't think she's going to fit in there for much longer.

The last stop of this particular shopping trip ended in the feminine hygiene aisle, cause, you know, it was getting close to that time of month and I didn't want to get caught unprepared. What a wall of products! Shelf after shelf of colorful packaging and drawings portraying what lie within the packaging. Drawings of pads and pretty flowers, cartoonish women on a box of sports Tampax, likenessess of tampons on the front of the box, their handy dandy little strings neatly coiled near the bright white cotton stopper. Unruly gazes at the wall of boxes and bags, I'm sure devouring every last bit of information her little mind can suck up as I search for my preferred brand.

I catch her looking at a box of Tampax, the box with the detailed picture of a tampon freed from its little inserter thingie, bared for the world to see. Her eyes focus on that tampon and its long string and she leans forward to get a better look.

A wave of comprehension flashes across her innocent, cherubic countenance.

"Mom! Mom! I need some FLOSS!" No, she never uses her inside voice, not when she wants to be heard NOW.

Cheeks redden as I look around quickly, hoping no one heard her and made the connection.

"Why do you think you need some floss?" I inquire, trying to keep from laughing. My insides are starting to hurt.

"Well, because I don't have any floss. And there's a box of floss RIGHT THERE!" Louder this time, with fingers desperately in need of a manicure reaching toward the box of tampons. The one with the long, long white string emblazoned on the front.

I turn the cart around as quickly as I can, lowering my eyes to avoid contact with anyone who may have heard as I grab the nearest box of product, toss it into the cart and hightail it towards a safer section. Of course I manage to ram the edge of my cart into a little old gray-haired lady checking out the Depends.

"Oh. That's not floss honey," I said, heading towards the cat food section. Something far safer and less embarassing.

"Looks like floss to me. What is it?"

"Ummm...grown up lady stuff. Not floss."

"Oh. Can I have it any way?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because."