Talking with the Pediatrician is always a load of fun. Mothers like I need mint flavored shoes because we spend so much time with our feet in our mouths. I’m sure the kids really enjoyed my screeching at him, “Malathion?! You want to prescribe Malathion for my children’s scalp? Are you trying to kill us all?”
Fast forward a few days and I’m standing over my son, holding back tears and pulling yet another nit out of his hair I’m hoping it’s the last. I say to him, “Just be still Alexander if we can get you 100% nit free you can go to camp tomorrow.”
Like a cherub, my little guy looked up at me, “Actually Mom, it’s a lot of fun just staying home with you and Jane.”
Although my heart absolutely melted and my stressed out shoulders dropped for the first time in four days, I’d really like to know what the fun part was? Which one of the 15 nit picking hours was the finest? Was it the hour when I had to walk outside and scream fuck at the top of my lungs? Was it when I accused my husband of catching a cold on purpose so he couldn’t help? Maybe the fun part was when I couldn’t find the lice because I was crying?
At some point between hours 11 and 12 I called in reinforcements and The Picky Mom gave me three precious hours of her time. She called me a Saint, I sat down and cried a little more. I cannot begin to tell you the anguish and failure of having another woman performing a parenting task that I know I should do. However, it’s worth noting that this particular failure was the smartest thing I could have done. If was a gazillionaire I’d have that woman move in with me for a week. Alas, three hours is all I can afford.
No, the best part is probably when I declared, “No one is allowed to touch Mommy.” Clearly, there is a parallel universe. One where I’m not a wretched, weeping, cursing, drinking, screeching, nit-picking mother.
They love us. Our children love us no matter what we do, no matter how poorly we behave. I need to be keenly aware of that.