SuperMA’AM Vs. the Dreaded Pediculus Humanus Capitis

Look, up in the sky!

It’s a turkey buzzard!

No, it’s a witch on a broomstick!

No - it’s SuperMA’AM          - middle-aged active mom!

Today’s adventure:                  

SuperMA’AM VS. the Dreaded Pediculus Humanus Capitis.

 As the morning begins, SuperMA’AM, aka moi, is engaged in the usual school-day morning routine:  eat a bite of oatmeal, yell at the kids, start a load of laundry, yell at the kids, throw on some clothes that might be clean, yell at the kids, etc.

At 7:30, only minutes before our PTD, (planned time of departure - not to be confused with our ETD, estimated time of departure - which is not to be confused with our ATD, actual time of departure) the phone rings.  Someone’s calling to make sure that I got the memo from school yesterday.

“Memo?  What memo?  THAT memo! Oh no!  No, I didn’t.  Thanks for calling.”

I hang up the phone, look at my children, and remark to my son, “Well, since you have a crewcut, you can go to school today.”  They all look bewildered, and momentarily stop fighting over who gets the lunch money with the new quarter.  I walk over to my daughters and look carefully through their hair.  Using my special superhero vision, (reading glasses, $2.99) I spy some tiny whitish eggs laid by my archenemy, Pediculus humanus capitis.

I head for the freezer to make sure there’s plenty of ice cream; I’m going to need it.  My daughters rush in, followed by my faithful sidekick, Unbrushed Dog.  My daughters look anxious; even the seven-year-old knows it’s not good when mommy hits the ice cream before 8:00 am.  Unbrushed’s supersensitive nose detects high levels of stress.  As my faithful sidekick, he understands exactly what this means - in this condition, I’m a lot more likely to drop food on the floor.   

I stare at my daughters.  “Would you maybe like to shave your heads?  Then you could go to school today.  It’d be great!”

“Eek!  No!  Mom, are you crazy?” 

“Just a thought.”  My older daughter’s ponytail is at least three inches in circumference; that’s a lot of hair.  Hair that I will have to comb through, strand by strand, to combat the horrible Pediculus, or common head louse. 

Pediculus and I did battle once before, years ago; I’m really not sure who won. Oh, I eventually recaptured my territory, but at a great cost of money, time, and laundry detergent, not to mention a trip to the hospital for the eye injury.  (Turns out it’s not just some useless warning they print on the box - you really shouldn’t get that stuff in your eyes.) 

Just combing one daughter’s hair would take hours.  Then there’s the other daughter’s hair, which would take more hours.  Not to mention washing all the bedding - and since we know from a previous adventure that comforters will NOT fit in the washing machine, that means going to the laundromat - then vacuuming the entire house, bagging stuffed animals, laundering towels, and disinfecting hair accessories, even the Winnie-the-Pooh barrettes.

Ice cream was not going to be enough.  I head into the bedroom and cry aloud, “Where is a superhero when you need one?!”  And it happens - a bang (I trip), a scuffle (I dig my cape out of the closet) and a whoosh (I put it on) - I am SuperMA’AM!

Surveying my superhero self in the full length mirror, I see strength, agility, and maybe a little too much ice cream.  But I brush that last observation aside, because I’m going to eat more ice cream anyway - I mean, because I’m SuperMA’AM!

- Able to leap tall piles of laundry in a single bound!

- Able to nit-comb my own hair! (with a few drinks and a couple of mirrors)

- Able to bribe my oldest son to go to the laundromat for me!

Emboldened for battle, I stride into the hallway.  My youngest son, still waiting for a ride, stares at me, clearly awe-inspired. 

Or maybe just horrified.  “Are you going to wear that old tablecloth around your neck while you drive me to school?”  he asks.

I think about it for a moment, “Yep.  And I’m bringing a spoon; you’ll need to hold the ice cream.”