Friday Night Lice

Last week, at her piano lesson, Mary's teacher asked what was the secret to her success this week? 

Mary didn't hesitate, 'that you can't depend on your mom,' she said. 

Her teacher chuckled. When I was out of town all week and unable to help her practice, she hadn't played well, and the teacher told her just that. 

'Yes, that,' he said. 'But also, when you count, you get it right.' 

'Oh. Yes,' she softly responded.  

I could see a little tear in her eye. It was a glimmer really. A speck that didn't make it out of her eye, onto her cheek, onto the piano. But just enough to make me understand that she was reflecting on something we talked about weeks ago. That is, growing up is uncomfortable and a little scary for her. She wants to depend on me. She wants her dad to read her stories at night. She wants to be a little girl. I appreciated that, and told her I still wanted to be transported to Neverland.    

The glimmer of a tear started when Mary was given the leading role in her fourth grade musical before Christmas. The title: Stormy the Singing Snowman. Her part: Stormy the Singing Snowman. The show premiered midway through January, and she sang beautifully. She belted out her solo with piercing perfection, looked like the sweetest little gumdrop on stage, and carried a smile that lit up the auditorium. The same one where I acted the part of Loraine Sheldon in the Man Who Came to Dinner a million years ago. 

Her center stage role sparked some jealousy and then controversy in the classroom though. There were students who were frustrated and then envious that they couldn't be Stormy. Which manifested as hurtful comments toward my girl. I got involved because it had reached that point. There were meetings, and reparations, and resolutions, and through it all she handled everything with bravery and a maturity that made me even prouder than her performance. The two of us talked through the challenges, we navigated some new waters together, we confiding in each other, and made our relationship stronger. She does still depend on her mom, and I still want to be there for her. 

It wasn't just Mary though, this has been a season of maturity for all of us.    

Bobby turned eight in January. At his special birthday dinner at the little restaurant down the street from our house, he told Peter and me that his favorite part of being a seven year old was hockey. And that the thing he was looking forward to most as he turned eight was hockey. He is a boy obsessed. A boy on a mission. A hockey mission. Moving to Pittsburgh gave him the opportunity to Learn to Skate with the Penguins, and now Learn to Play with them. He gears up in roller blades or ice skates every day and furiously practices to became Bobby the great. For a kid who has always been dragged along to sports - soccer, tennis, basketball, baseball, you name it ... he has finally found something that he loves. And he's doing so well at it. My only worry is how his hockey obsession will impact our afternoon and weekend logistics.  

Margaret. Poor little delightful Margaret. This month she has been through a stomach flu, pink eye, congestion, and then last week's drama, which I'll get to. But through it all, she continues to grow and mature. At her parent-teacher conference last week, her teacher let us know just how special she is. Always happy. Always helping. A friend and partner to all. And by the way, making significant progress on her handwriting and math skills.      

Then the babies. Talking more than ever. Best friends to the end. Lovers of snacks. Scooter riders. And getting their back tickled before bed. They had progressed so much that I thought, hey let's try to see if they can get pushed ahead in school. While only two, I applied for them to do 3-year pre-school in the fall. They got assessed, and then firmly rejected as not at all ready for this elite nursery school programming. They did receive glowing remarks on how cute they were though. 

Peter and I also matured - we had some very real conversations around the state of our partnership, in light of our move, a shift of jobs and a shift in roles, the outlook for the year, and projections for the next five. In the middle of our daily chaos, we don't have a lot of these discussions. And while all the change we've taken on this year has been challenging, it's forced us to connect and calibrate on a much deeper level, supporting and cheering for each other in new ways.  

As I've looked and reflected on everyone under our roof, I've seen how far we've all come. It's still a house of five kids under ten. It's still a challenge. But everyone is coming into their own. Taking on additional responsibility. Leading in their own ways. 

So much so, that I actually have a vision within grasp. I might just get to sign off from work on a Friday evening, have a glass of wine and a slice of pizza, laugh with the family, maybe watch a movie, play a game, stay up a tad later, because heck, it's Friday night. And everyone is getting so much more self-sufficient.   

Last week, I brought the kids home from their overpriced piano lessons - the one where I started this story. They had done well. Actually, really great. I walked in, dusting off the cold, and reapplied lipstick. 

'Ordered the pizza,' Peter said. 

He had a beer. I poured myself a glass of wine. Friday had never felt so good, given all this maturity blooming in the house. The smaller kids watched a show. Mary and Bobby chatted it up. The pizza came and tasted absolutely delicious. Mostly because I didn't make it. 

A piece down, a glass of relaxation consumed, and the twins came roaring down half wanting dinner, half wanting to sleep forever as they hadn't napped. Roars turned into frenzied fanaticism. They went nuts, so I threw them in bed early. Slight deflection from my perfect Friday night, but once in bed, it was quiet again. I came downstairs to continue talking with Peter, and he said, 'I might be over thinking this, and I don't want to raise alarm, but I feel like there are flies in Margaret's hair.' 

'Um, yes, let's be concerned.' 

I went upstairs and looked through Margaret's hair. Alarm raised sky high. Peter was at CVS two seconds later. 

Five minutes more and we were all scrubbing our hair, sheets, towels, blankets and stuffies. We were spraying and disinfecting every room in the house. We were combing the kids' hair strand by strand. And then Peter was doing the same to me. Gross. Just gross. The babies were sleeping, so I just prayed the bugs weren't in their room too. 

A couple more rounds of sanitization and nit removal and the problem was gone. The too late announcement from school saying lice was going around dinged in my email box as I was going to bed. Yep, it sure was.   

I'm still itching from the trauma, but our maturity paid off. We laughed through it. Friday night lice I called it. Another shared experience, and another family story we'll chuckle about years for now. 

In all, pre-teen drama, travel and lice included, I've found that Mary's piano teacher wasn't quite right. You can grow and mature and gain independence, but whether out of town or not, you can always depend on your mom. 

Lo