I'm Needy. There. I Admit It: I Need You

Not so long ago, a social media guru of my acquaintance sent an email regarding one of my blog posts—the one about me not writing anymore. I’ve felt, for much of the past few months, that I shouldn’t post anything that actually resembled my life, because of the divorce and because there were other people involved. Namely, Thomas and the girls. And because I often find it difficult to write about anything unless it’s something I’m truly interested in or passionate about or getting paid for (sorry I have to say that because it’s my job), I have said nothing. For a long time, I have said nothing.

It has not been as amicable as we had hoped. It has not been as respectful as we had hoped. It has not been something upon which I have hopes that we can eventually re-build a friendship. And so I have said nothing. Because I did not think it something that you wanted to hear, or that I cared to inflict upon you.

But there was this email from the social media guru of my acquaintance. When I wrote, “I don’t write anymore,” he (and one other,) asked, “Why do you need an audience?” It took me a long time to figure out why it mattered.

I need an audience—I need you—because of the way I write. It’s a conversation. When I write in a journal, when I know that it’s only for me, I leave stuff out. I forget words. I sound like a 15 year old, trying to impress my inner self, the self that has already heard the jokes and the one-liners that might make someone else laugh.

But when I write here, I write for both of us, and whether you like it or not, I write for myself and for you. And some of you tell me that that’s OK, that you’re OK with that arrangement. Even those of you who wonder at the liberties that I take with the English language and proper sentence structure.

Writing to you, talking to you, having this conversation with you—some of you for five plus years—has allowed me to become a better writer, and indeed, to better understand myself. I certainly don’t think I’m brilliant, but I know that I am a better writer because of this blog and because of you. I appreciate all of the times you have told me you loved what I wrote, as well as all of the times you’ve told me that I was wrong. And I have been wrong. About a lot of things. But not, I think, about this.

And so, to the Social Media Guru of My Acquaintance I say this: I need an audience because I need people. I like people. I used to be painfully shy; it was hard for me to get to know people. But, in part because of this blog, it’s become easier over time. I like people and I like to feel close to them, even if they are half the world away. I like to know what they think and how they feel and who they are and what makes them . . . well, really, what makes them them. I like talking to them. Talking to you.

I have loved being Left Coast Mom. I have loved writing this blog. And I will continue to write this blog because I am OK admitting that I need you. That I need an audience. All twelve of you (inside joke).

Escape from Louse Mountain

I hate bugs. Ever heard me mention that? I. Really. Hate. Bugs.

And now one of my biggest bug-related fears has come true, not once, not twice, but thrice: Head lice. Head LICE. Not on me, which would be horrid enough. On my children. I thought we were going to escape them altogether. After all, I never had lice. Thomas never had lice. None of our siblings ever had lice. Hannah didn't get them at camp last summer when all of her friends did.

But two weeks ago, she started scratching. I didn't see anything the several times that I checked. But then, as I was holding the shower door for her, SOMETHING fell on my arm. It looked like a little bit of fuzz. But a more solid bit of fuzz than fuzz normally appears to be. And it fell from her head.

I have spent the past seven years hiding, as well as I can, the fact that I don't like bugs. That I'm pretty much terrified of spiders. I hide it because I don't want Hannah and Charlotte to have my ridiculous fear of these tiny creatures.

Leetle sidebar: My fear stems from an incident when I was very young: I learned upon kicking a log in my grandparents yard that said log was infested with now-angry Daddy Longlegs. Angry Daddy Longlegs swarm. Did you know that? I did not. Hence my life-long fear of spiders (do NOT tell me that "technically, they are not spiders." I know that. I get it. It doesn't matter), and other bugs. On contact, they all tend to cause the same creepy crawling of the skin.

And I think I've done a pretty good job not infecting them with my bugophoboa--in fact, a couple of years ago, at Happy Hollow Park and Zoo, Hannah actually held an African Giant Millipede--which, Jeezus Edith, some people keep as pets. So when the little bit of oh-dear-god-please-let-that-be-fuzz fell on my arm, I quickly and calmly-ish slapped my hand over it, ushered Hannah into the shower and ran to ask Thomas "What the hell is this?!" We had to Google it. It was a louse. It had friends. Lots of friends. My head began to itch. Not bugs--just psychosomatic.

We treated it with Nix. Twice. I made her wash her hair every day. We did the fine-toothed comb. Every day. We [[insert sound of shudder]] picked nits. Every day. I washed in hot water and dried on hot for 70 minutes all bedding, stuffed animals, pillows, clothes and anything else that would fit in the washer and/or dryer. Vacuum, vacuum, vacuum. The floor. The beds. The dog, for good measure. Finally, a little over a week later, they were gone.

And then they came back. Two days ago, first thing in the morning, she started scratching again. "No no no no! Oh please, no!" The universe turned a deaf ear to my pleas. Somehow, I missed at least two and those fertile little fuckers were at it again. Did you know they can hold their breath for an obscene amount of time, which is why just shampooing won't kill them? I did not.

Back to the pharmacy. Everything back in the washer and/or dryer on the hottest setting. Vacuum, vacuum. Bleach the sink and tub after the treating and [[insert sound of shudder]] nit picking sessions. Everything I've read says that lice are not an indication that you or your house are lacking in cleanliness, which is small comfort when the treatment is to clean yourself and your home harder than you probably thought possible.

Throughout all of this, I've been giving myself a mental high five because, as much as I hate bugs (have I mentioned that?), I haven't freaked out in front of the girls. Even when Hannah made me leave a live louse on a tissue for a couple of minutes because she wanted to see what it looked like. I almost offered to let her look at one online, but wasn't sure if the magnified images would, in a nanosecond, undo seven years of my not freaking out.

This morning all of our de-lousing efforts--not to mention Hannah's incredible patience with the fine-toothed comb in her very thick hair--were clearly paying off. There were very few nits left! And then, from the kitchen I heard, "Um, Mel? Bad news. Charlotte has them, too."

Frickemfuckemfrackem. I need a bigger washing machine.