In Memorium: Verna Jane Wurges

My Grandma Wurges would have been 97 today. I wasn't there when she was born but I can bet you that she came into this world with as much spunk and fight as she did when she left us last March. And so I would like to honor her today by telling you a little bit about this wonderful woman who is now looking down on us from heaven.

Verna Jane Brown was born on February 4, 1912, to Tom and Minnie Brown. She was raised on a farm in Glencoe, Ontario. She was the 7^th of 12 children and had 3 sisters and 8 brothers. She doted on her younger siblings and was a great help to her older siblings as well as her mother. She helped out on the farm as was her duty, baking bread and pies for the midday and evening meals.

She was a sassy young thing, popular with the fellows, especially her brothers, who were especially fond of her and included her in everything. Verna was a tomboy, and played softball and hockey with her brothers.

Verna was a cookie monster and loved sweets, but especially cookies. One day her love for cookies got her into big trouble. She was 17 and wanted a snack before dinner. No one was in the kitchen so she climbed up on the counter so she could reach the cookie jar. She didn’t quite reach the cookie jar before she lost her balance and toppled off the counter and on to the floor, breaking her back. The doctors didn’t think she would live as there was nothing they could do for her. But she did live. And they certainly didn’t think she would walk again, but she did. A miracle of the times, you might call her. Verna laid flat on her back for two years before she was able to walk again, amidst much pain and suffering. And all because she wanted a cookie!!

Verna wanted to be a nurse. With the help of her doctor, Dr. Freel, she was able to take classes by mail and earn her certification. Dr. Freel even helped her get a job, but alas, it didn’t last long because she couldn’t lift patients because of her back.

When Verna was 24, a visitor came to the farm who would change her life forever. John Vincent Wurges, a dashing fellow who was 2 years younger than she, came to the farm with his cousin Oral Kindrie, who was also a cousin of Verna’s.

The distant cousins hit it off and soon Jack or Vinny, as he was called, was a constant fixture of the Brown farm. He came to visit as often as he could, quite a feat for him since he was from the States. Verna was engaged to another fellow when she met Jack, but soon broke her engagement because she knew that Jack was the guy for her.

On December 23, 1939, Verna and Jack were married in a small ceremony at the farm. And so began 55 years of wedded bliss. Jack took Verna to live in his home state just across the Canadian border. They lived in a small house in Royal Oak, a suburb of Detroit, Michigan.

A few years after they were married, Jack was called to serve his country in WWII. And so they parted for the first time in their married lives as he sailed off on the Saratoga, their futures uncertain. Verna kept herself busy as one year passed, then two. She missed Jack very much, and sent him pictures of herself to keep him company. He missed her very much and wrote love notes to her on the back of the pictures: “My darling, if you could only know my thoughts today. I received these pictures 3 Sept. 1944 aboard USS Saratoga at Bremerton, Wash. I love you so much.”

When the war ended, Jack returned home to Verna and they were together once more. In 1947, their twosome became three, when they adopted a little bundle of joy named Erwin Jeffrey, or Jeff as most people call him, or Dad, as I call him. Jeff was the apple of Jack and Verna’s eyes. Verna doted on Jeff and spoiled him rotten.

In 1968, Jeff married Judie, who Verna soon adopted as the daughter she never had. Then came two more apples: her grandchildren. First came me in 1969, and then my brotherJon in 1972. And once more Verna had someone to dote on and spoil rotten. And boy did she spoil us. Jon and I both looked forward to spending the night at Grandma and Grandpa’s because the sky was the limit. Grandma always stocked the house with cookies and candy and we spent many happy hours making pizza and homemade doughnuts or fudge, things we weren’t allowed to eat at home.

And the rest, they say, is history. Jack and Verna lived out their lives together spending happy times with friends and family. They retired in Florida, spending the summers in Michigan. Golf and bowling and parties became staples of their lives.

Now, I’m not saying that life was perfect. When people age their bodies often have to make sacrifices to keep them living. Grandma must have been the sacrificial lamb as she had operation after operation on knees, toes, wrists, and shoulders. And then her eyes went. But still she kept on going, part bionic woman, part energizer bunny. In fact, she played golf until she was in her 80’s, a most amazing feat considering that she couldn’t see the ball when she hit it (or so she said!).

In 1993, Jack and Verna parted for the second time in their marriage and a huge void was left in her life. For the first time she was truly on her own. But, in true Verna fashion, she made the best of the situation and overcame her loneliness by caring for others. In her home at Mercy Bellbrook there is a “sick floor”, where all the residents go when they are ill and need care. Grandma visited these people several times a week, bringing them candy to brighten up their day. She visited the sick floor religiously, until she ended up there herself with a broken hip. She was 88 years old. The doctor wasn’t sure if she would ever walk again, but she showed him. In only six months, Grandma was walking – a miraculous feat.

In 2004, Grandma fell again and fractured a vertabrate in her neck. The doctors mandated that she had to wear a neck brace now, and probably would for the rest of her life.She was now very limited in her movements and had to depend on others (finally!) to help her with everything. In retrospect, I think it was after this removal of independance that we began to lose her. First her hearing went and then she began to become less aware of her surroundings. Then last March she came down with bronchitis and never recovered. Her passing was both a blessing and a heartbreak: a blessing because we knew she would be happy to finally with my grandfather again and that she wouldn't have to suffer any more, and a heartbreak because we knew that we were really going to miss her.

About 10 years ago I interviewed Grandma so I could document the story of her life on video. At the time she lived alone in her assisted living apartment at Mercy Bellbrook. We spent a summer afternoon together and what a great afternoon it was. We took a walk around the Mercy Bellbrook complex, then made some tea and sat down for the interview, the bright afternoon sun shining on us through her windows. Grandma was totally in the zone, and by that I mean that she was emanating pure happiness and positiveness as she took a walk down memory lane.As I watched the video again after she died I remembered what a great life Grandma had and what a great person she was. I was amazed by her spunk, her inner strength, her generosity, her will to live, her faith, and most of all her unconditional love for everyone.

There are many things that I admired deeply about Grandma, but three things stand out to me today. One is her faith. We went to church often with Grandma and Grandpa and I remember how she loved to sing loudly each hymn with fervor and passion. She always gave thanks for what she had and encouraged us to do so also. I remember her telling me about the golden rule, something she lived her life by: "Jennifer, always treat others as you would want to be treated!" I now tell my own children the same thing.

The second is her forthright-fullness. Grandma didn't care what anyone thought, she did things anyway. If she wanted to go visit an ailing friend, she wouldn't worry about calling first to see if now was a good time for a visit as I probably would do, she would just bake them something tasty and take it over to them, granddaughter in tow.

And third, grandma's outpouring of unconditional love. Grandma might have loved reading Jon and I about Dr. Seuss's Grinch who stole Christmas and his little teeny heart, but one thing's for sure - Grandma was no Grinch! She had the biggest heart of almost anyone I know and her capacity to love is her greatest legacy. She loved anyone and everyone and told you so often, even if she'd just met you.

My grandma is such an inspiration to me. Despite all the challenges that God placed in front of her in her lifetime, she just hurdled over them and kept on living. Even when it was time for her to go she still put up a fight, for I believe that she didn't want to leave her family: her son that she fought so hard to get, her daughter-in-law that she considered her own daughter, her two grandchildren that she doted on, their spouses of whom she was so proud, and her 3 great-grandchildren who continually amazed her with their youthful accomplishments.

Grandma always wore an angel pin on her shirt or sweater because she believed they protected her. I am sure Grandma is tickled pink, as she would say, that she is now one with the angels and can look down upon us and do the protecting herself.

Passages

Today was a defining moment in my journey as a mother. It was the day when I realized that my childbearing days were truly over.

In October when Nicholas turned 3 I told him that now he was a big boy and we could change his room from the nursery into something less babyish. My husband and I had recently discussed the possibility of having more children and realized that we enjoyed the one-parent-to-one-child ratio with the two children we had. And so we had no reason to keep the nursery any longer.

In comes January, a fresh new year and I'm armed with a list of to-do's, Nicholas's room change at the very top. In order to make his room over I only have to remove the wallpaper border and paint the walls blue. It's not rocket science, but for some reason I keep avoiding the task.

Today is the day, however. It only takes me 30 minutes to steam and strip the border from its light green wall but it is not an easy task. As I tear the first piece of cutesy John Lennon jungle theme border from the wall I remember the day the nursery was born. I was too pregnant with Michael to participate but my mom, grandma, and sister-in-law all pitched in to paint and wallpaper. As they painted and pasted, I watched from my soon-to-be permanent position in the new rocking chair, my belly swollen with child. We talked about the upcoming birth and of our hopes and dreams for this baby, infusing the room with love and comfort.

I remember how in this room I dressed two children as they grew from newborns to infants to toddlers and finally preschoolers. I remember the thousands of diaper changes I performed in this room and how many times the floor was peed on when we were going through potty training. I remember 2000 nights of listening to Brahms lullabies as I nursed and rocked the boys to sleep.

Now, almost six years later, this room is no longer going to function as a feeding/dressing/changing haven for babies but a room where a boy can grow and sleep and dream on his own.

For the last six years my body has been like that room, a haven that housed, birthed, and nourished my boys. Now, as I approach my fourth decade, my body is my own again. It's a bittersweet feeling for me, this knowledge that I'm done having children. Never again will I feel the elation that comes from knowing that there is another being growing inside me. I will not watch in wonder as a hand or foot stretches its way across my belly from the inside. My body will never again do the dance of power required to birth an almost 9 lb. baby through a 10 cm circumference.

On the other hand, now that the boys are done with diapers and are a lot more self sufficient, I look forward to having time to do more together as a family, like ice-skating and board games. We can now take vacations where we don't have to schedule every activity around naptime. And, possibly, I can take some time to rediscover who I am and what I might like to do with myself as I grow up.

Tonight my child sleeps in his unfinished room dreaming of baseball games and dinosaurs and whatever else a 3 year-old might have stored in his subconscious. I sit on the other side of the wall reflecting on the past and realizing how very full the future really is.

The Twelve Days of Babymas

On the first day of Christmas my baby gave to me …. a smile that was meant just for me.


On the second day of Christmas my baby gave to me …. 2 rosy cheeks, and a smile that was meant just for me.


On the third day of Christmas my baby gave to me …. 3 drooly kisses, 2 rosy cheeks, and a smile that was meant just for me.


On the fourth day of Christmas my baby gave to me …. 4 bear hugs, 3 drooly kisses, 2 rosy cheeks, and a smile that was meant just for me.


On the fifth day of Christmas my baby gave to me …. 5 blessed hours of sleep...4 bear hugs, 3 drooly kisses, 2 rosy cheeks, and a smile that was meant just for me.


On the sixth day of Christmas my baby gave to me …. 6 kisses blowing, 5 blessed hours of sleep...4 bear hugs, 3 drooly kisses, 2 rosy cheeks, and a smile that was meant just for me.


On the seventh day of Christmas my baby gave to me …. 7 tiny giggles, 6 kisses blowing, 5 blessed hours of sleep...4 bear hugs, 3 drooly kisses, 2 rosy cheeks, and a smile that was meant just for me.


On the eighth day of Christmas my baby gave to me …. 8 more months of milking, 7 tiny giggles, 6 kisses blowing, 5 blessed hours of sleep...4 bear hugs, 3 drooly kisses, 2 rosy cheeks, and a smile that was meant just for me.


On the ninth day of Christmas my baby gave to me …. 9 dirty diapers, 8 more months of milking, 7 tiny giggles, 6 kisses blowing, 5 blessed hours of sleep...4 bear hugs, 3 drooly kisses, 2 rosy cheeks, and a smile that was meant just for me.


On the tenth day of Christmas my baby gave to me …. 10 clean fingers and toesies, 9 dirty diapers, 8 more months of milking, 7 tiny giggles, 6 kisses blowing, 5 blessed hours of sleep...4 bear hugs, 3 drooly kisses, 2 rosy cheeks, and a smile that was meant just for me.


On the eleventh day of Christmas my baby gave to me …. 11 messy burp cloths, 10 clean fingers and toesies, 9 dirty diapers, 8 more months of milking, 7 tiny giggles, 6 kisses blowing, 5 blessed hours of sleep...4 bear hugs, 3 drooly kisses, 2 rosy cheeks, and a smile that was meant just for me.


On the twelfth day of Christmas my baby gave to me …. 12 TP rolls a flowing, 11 messy burp cloths, 10 clean fingers and toesies, 9 dirty diapers, 8 more months of milking, 7 tiny giggles, 6 kisses blowing, 5 blessed hours of sleep...4 bear hugs, 3 drooly kisses, 2 rosy cheeks,

And a smile that was meant just for me!

Aly's Legacy

A neighbor of mine lost her only child a few months ago. Her only daughter. Her name was Aly. She had just turned 19 and had just finished her first year of college. She wanted to be a nurse or doctor, last I heard. She seemed like a good kid. She loved kids, even babysat for my son once. She died suddenly, from an accidental prescription drug overdose.

As a neighbor I am in shock, for this hits too close to home. As a mother, this is unfathomable. How do you lose a child, your only child, your world? As a mother, how do you recover from this? One day your daughter is here, the next she's gone forever, all her hopes and dreams with her.

When I first heard about Aly's death I was shocked. To read in the news that 1 in 5 teens has abused a prescription pain medication (The Partnership For A Drug-free America, http://www.drugfree.org/) is one thing, but when a young person in your neighborhood dies from partying with a morphine patch is somehow inconceivable. And yet, as I remember when I was a teenager and all that was available I realize that not much has changed. Back then instead of using prescription drugs teenagers sniffed glue or took cough medicine with codeine to get high, among other things.

I know how young adults are with their devil-may-care attitudes, for I was just one of them it seems. I feel lucky to have survived that period of my life, for I thought that I was invincible. However, it could as easily have been my mother who had to deal with her daughter's death.

But it wasn't and now I am a mother. Now I know how it feels to love someone more than yourself, to vow to protect someone to the ends of this earth, to feel the gut wrenching fear of loss. I cannot imagine life without my two young boys. I feel lucky to have them here with me under my roof, but guilty as I think about my neighbor several houses down whose daughter's room is empty. I feel fear as I think about my boys' futures: how do I protect them from something like this?

I received a letter from Aly's parents sometime after her death asking to spread the word about the dangers of prescription drugs that do not belong to you. "Warn your children," they wrote. "They think they are invincible, we all did. Just because the drug isn't illegal like heroin or cocaine or crack, doesn't mean it is safe if it is prescribed by a doctor for another. One tragic mistake can take their life away and leave many hearts broken."

After reading this letter I realized that my responsibility as a writer is to share this information with as many people as possible. My children aren't yet old enough for this to be a real threat to me but knowledge is power and if we get the word out now about the dangers of prescription drugs, perhaps by the time my boys are teenagers enough actions will have been taken to get these drugs out of the hands of young people.

As I get older I am finding that there are no guarantees in life. There is nothing written in stone that says that my children will be protected from all hardships and loss or that I will not experience an untimely loss myself. But I have to believe that all the love we bestow on our children will give us some insurance. And so let's hug them, squeeze them, love them, and TALK to them. And do a lot of praying.

Please do me a favor and share this information with your children or with the parents of teenaged children. Pass it on and spread the word. If the untimely death of a teenager can spark some change in this world then her passing will not have been in vain.

Survival of the Stitches!

Tonight Jeff and I can officially call ourselves seasoned parents: we survived a trip to Urgent Care for one of our sons.

It happened like this:

It was about 6:30 p.m. and Michael had just put on his pajamas. He'd had a busy week and weekend and was needing to go to bed early, says me. Apparently he didn't agree with this because he started that before bedtime rough housing thing that boys do with their fathers (at least mine do). I was putting away dishes in the kitchen and the boys and Jeff were in the living room.

All of a sudden I heard a loud thwack of head hitting solid surface. Immediately following was a loud, high-pitched scream, the one reserved only for serious hurts. I ran into the living room and saw Jeff holding Michael's head. His first instinct was to see if Michael's head was bleeding. Sure enough, it was.

"What happened?" I asked without raising my voice. Somehow I was not entering panic mode but instead was calm.

"Michael hit his head on the corner of the coffee table," Jeff replied.

"Murphy's Law," I said. "We haven't had a coffee table in the house since Michael was little for just this reason and 10 days after we get one someone gets hurt."

I was not experienced with head wound treatment but knew enough to find a spare cloth, wet it down, and put it on the back of Michael's head and apply pressure. After a few minutes I lifted the cloth to see the damage. What I saw was not good - a one-inch gash of broken skin on the back of Michael's head along with a lot of blood.

"Looks like a trip to the hospital for stitches," I said. Jeff agreed. Michael didn't.

"Noooooo!!!" Michael wailed. "I don't want to go to the hospital! I don't want to get stitches!"

Does anyone ever WANT to get stitches? Probably not. Michael doesn't do well with being hurt and has to have band-aids for little tiny paper cuts. The last time he had to have a shot at the doctor's office he hid under the table and I had to drag him out in order for him to get the shot.

I've never had stitches so I have no experience to go by as far as what happens, but I tried my best to assure Michael that it wouldn't hurt much and that we really needed to get his head fixed. Luckily for us we realized that we could go to the Urgent Care facility a mile down the road and bypass the ER experience.

"I'm scared Momma, I'm really scared," Michael said to me as I held the cloth against his head while Jeff drove.

"It'll be ok," I reassured him. "I'll be with you the whole time and hold your hand."

Despite this fact, he was pretty hysterical by the time the nurse took us back to the cot where he would get his stitches. I'm not the best at thinking on the fly, but I have to give myself a pat on the back because tonight I stood up to the challenge.

"How about if I tell you a story?" I asked him.

"Uh huh," he mumbled through his tears.

"Once upon a time," I began, "there was a little boy named Michael..." I don't know if it was the tone of my voice or if he really was enthralled by my stories (or maybe it was the 25 mg of Benedryl they gave him), but he calmed right down and remained that way while the nurse cut the hair around his cut and cleaned it, and through the doctor's assessment that he would indeed need 4 stitches.

We had plenty of time for stories too since we had to wait about 30 minutes for the Benadryl to take effect and the Lidocaine to numb his wound. By the time the doctor came in to stitch Michael up, he was pretty groggy. He only cried a little bit when the doctor gave him a couple shots of local anesthesia to numb him up. And he laid perfectly still for the stitches. Not even a peep.

So, 1 1/2 hours, $40, four Lego stickers, and two tired children later we said goodbye to the Urgent Care staff, thankful that we hadn't had to take a trip to the Emergency Room (for we would probably still be there) and thankful that the situation hadn't been much worse.

Nothing can prepare one for situations like these but I'm proud that Jeff and I were both mavericks through it all. No one passed out from the sight of blood or the gaping wound or the stitching of skin. We remained cool, calm, and collected. We survived.

Tomorrow, I'm afraid, will be a different story. That's when I get to tackle the fun task of washing the wound and putting salve on it. I'm sure that will be like trying to get a cat to take a bath. Maybe I can try the story trick again.

"Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Michael..."

All By Myself!

Nicholas has a new mantra: "I can do it ALL BY MYSELF!" He says it about everything from putting jelly on his waffle to putting on his shirt in the morning. He is very proud about this budding independence of his.


"Nicholas, come brush your teeth," I tell him as I get the toothpaste and toothbrush out.

"I can do it all by myself," he demands as he grabs the toothpaste from me and squeezes twice the amount he needs onto the toothbrush.

I try to let him do as much by himself as he can for I know this is important for his development. He'll ask me for help when he needs it, which is often. This morning he wanted to get dressed right after he got up. While I tried to clear my head for the day he went into his room, took off his pajamas, picked out a shirt, put it on, put some underwear on, and came to get me to get him some pants.

"Do you want to wear jeans or sweatpants today?" I asked him.

"Sweatpants," he said. I picked out a pair of sweatpants and automatically held them so he could step into them.

"Mom!" he cried. "I can do it all by myself!"

"I can do it all by myself." These words are music to my ears for up until about a month ago he could never bear to be without me.

From the time this child entered the world we were stuck together like glue. I knew right from the start that he was going to give us a run for our money. When Michael was born he didn't cry at all; he just looked around taking it all in (and to this day he is the same way - he absorbs his environment). Not Nicholas. He came out screaming and crying and wouldn't calm down until he was handed to his mother and put to the breast.

As an infant, Nicholas liked to be held and if you put him down he would scream and cry until you picked him up again. Eventually we were able to put him in his swing for a long nap. At 6 weeks old he slept through the night for 10 hours at a stretch. How we celebrated when this happened. Unfortunately it was short lived and then his need for me was so much more intense. It was a need, too. He just wouldn't be satisfied with anyone - not Daddy, not Grandma or Grandpa - unless it was Mom.

Last month, much to my delight, he took a couple major steps forward in the "All by myself" campaign. First he mastered going poop in the potty almost overnight (going pee pee took a little longer but now I don't have to constantly hound him about going every 30 minutes), and then he started preschool AND had a sleepover by himself at Grandma's all on the same day.

I was floored by the grace in which he executed the latter two steps. The first day of preschool he walked through the door full of confidence and delight. I hung around for about 5 minutes and then told him I was going to go but I would be back to pick him up soon.

"Ok, Mom," he said and gave me a hug, then went back to playing with blocks. As I walked out the door I was surprised to find that I was tearing up, partly with joy at how easily we parted and partly with sadness that my baby was already hitting this milestone. I kept my cell phone on as I ran errands, expecting to get a call that he was inconsolable and needed me, but the call didn't come. When I picked him up he was excited to see me and so proud of himself for staying all by himself.

That same afternoon we went over to my mom's house to visit and celebrate his first day of preschool. I don't know if he was still riding the high of his newfound independance or just trying to see how brave he could be, but I know that I just about fell on my face when he uttered these words that my mom had been waiting almost 3 years to hear: "Grandma, can I have a sleepover?"

Of course she didn't say no so we went home and packed his suitcase. Upon dropping him off, I told my mom to call if I needed to come pick him up, even if it was at 3:00 in the morning. Then I went home to wait for that phone call. O ye of little faith, I thought ashamedly.

That night I had the best sleep I've had for about 5 years. I didn't wake up once - the phone never rang. I waited until I got Michael off to school then called my mom, anxious to hear the report.

Apparently Nicholas had the best sleep he's ever had too. "He didn't wake up once," my mom told me. "He was happy and didn't even cry for his mommy."

I was so excited for him and for myself. This was nothing short of a miracle! My clingy babe was turning into an independant little boy. I could see my future opening before my eyes: weekends away with the girls, trips away with my husband. Finally I would have some freedom!

In a fairy tale, this is just what would happen: Nicholas would continue to love being apart from his mom and be content to go to school by himself and have sleepovers away from home all the time. Alas, he fell victim to the two steps forward one step back rule of thumb.

In a few weeks he decided that he really didn't like going to preschool without me and began screaming and crying when I would leave him. His teacher and I decided that in order to prevent him from being traumatized from school forever that it was in his best interest if we pulled him from the program. It broke my heart to do so because we love this teacher and this particular preschool program, but he hasn't mentioned going back ever since so I know that it was the right thing to do. As far as sleepovers, well, he likes the idea of having one, but when it gets down to the time when Mom or Dad has to leave, he decides that he wants to go too.

And so I get what I had wanted in the first place: more quality time with my second-born son. Weekends away will just have to wait a little longer, but I'm taking time for myself at night or on the weekend. And Nicholas, well, he is still asserting himself and his independance, this time by tackling tasks like pouring cereal and milk into a bowl by himself or getting the juice out of the refrigerator.

Bugs, Bugs, Bugs!!

The e-mail came late Friday afternoon. It said, "Dear Parents, we found out late today that we have several students in the building that have head lice."

My heart stopped. Lice?! LICE?! As in creepy crawly bugs that cling to a child's head like bears to honey? Come on, I thought. We're only one month into the kindergarten and already we're getting notes about lice in the school?!

"Please check your children for nits," the e-mail continued. "They look like dandruff, but are difficult to get off the hair shaft unlike dandruff." I hoped that since Michael only went to school twice that week he wouldn't be very likely to come in contact with the lice, but called him over to me to check his head anyway.

"Mom, what are you doing?" he said as I lifted up his hair and randomly checked the roots for nits. (Even typing the word nits gives me the creeps - to think that something could be crawling around in my son's hair is unimaginable.)

"I'm looking for bugs, buddy," I replied. "Sometimes little bugs can get in your hair and then you have to get them out."

"How would you get them out?" he asked, intrigued by the thought.

"Well, you might have to get your head shaved cause then the bugs wouldn't have any hair to hold onto," I told him, not really knowing if that were true but it sounded good and maybe it would scare him into holding still for me.

It did. "Oh, I don't want that to happen," he said and sat like a stone so I could do a thorough check.

Luckily, I didn't find anything. I know from hearing horror stories what a pain having a child with lice can be. I think that apart from the vomiting flu, having your child come home with lice is a mother's biggest nightmare. Not only do you have to get the lice out of the hair, which can be tricky, then you have to decontaminate the whole house and hope that you got all the lice because leaving behind just one can start the process over again. I know a woman who battled lice on and off for 2 years and finally got rid of them by smothering them with mayonaise and plastic bags.

Hopefully I won't have to go through that. Michael came home from school today and told me that someone went through his hair and looked for bugs. I didn't receive a phone call from the school so I have to assume that he is bug-free. And that's the way it will hopefully stay. Bugs belong outside in the grass and trees, not in little boys' heads. But I'll keep checking anyway.


Here are some informational links about lice and how to get rid of them:

http://www.oakgov.com/health/assets/Documents/fs_headlice.pdf

http://www.oakgov.com/health/assets/Documents/PPHS/headlice_checklist.pdf

http://www.s-e-a.net/