I was writing a post last night, with real words and no pictures of my kids when my daughter complained, again, that her head itches. She of the allergies, she of the eczema - I paid her no mind.
She sat, making frumpy faces at me until I took her upstairs to my bathroom to inspect the rash.
Oh. My. Louse. Was I in for a surprise.
I cringed and fretted and felt like such a bum when I realized my sweet girl had lice.
I'm still cringing.
She was a trooper today, reassuring me that her body book explained what was happening, while I vacuumed, and washed mountains of laundry.
(Paranoia, big destroyer.)
I washed her new Pat the Bunny and sent the other 467 stuffed animals in her bed on a little vacation, by way of Hefty Hefty Hefty.
I expected her to cry and carry on. (Oh, wait. That was me.) Instead she drank her tea, watched her Buffy and even did some homework while I spent four hours grooming her very thick hair.
I'm still mortified, to be sure, and I thought about keeping this little incident to myself. I'm just too tired to finish that other post, before Mr. Bug came to town.