lice and hunting in Montana

It’s a gray, Missoula Sunday.  My husband woke at an ungodly hour in search of elk that supposedly bugle somewhere up Rock Creek.  My four year old found me a few hours later, asking to snuggle.  Instead of holding him like I longed to, I reminded him about the lice, made him go to the other side of the bed and strip the sheets back, throw the pillow to the floor.  I then adjusted my shower cap.

It’s been a really long, hard week.

My husband and I are both educators.  We have two small children who attend the same school where we both work.  This week was parent/teacher conferences, meaning early mornings, late afternoons and very focused, intense conversations.  Lice has been circling through the school as it tends to do.  My husband, ever the vigilant Virgo, has been sure we’ve had it countless times.  He was finally right.

So here’s where I am today.  Full of gratitude that it’s only lice, absolutely exhausted because the little things that I count on — the ability to get into a cozy bed at night, hang up my coat, brush my hair, take a bath with my children — can’t be had right now.  I have done more laundry than I ever imagined possible, watched my daughter scream as my husband painstakingly works through her thick, tangled curls in search of microscopic mites.

On top of this, we’ve had two dead deer hanging in our garage, begging, ever so pathetically, hauntingly, to be dealt with.  My man still hasn't finished the butchering of one and now he’s off for more.  Yes, this is Montana. Yes, we appreciate the meat.  But shoot.  I just want a little down time.  What’s up with all the random creatures?

My son calls from the other room, wants me to see his new castle.  My daughter comes in to my sacred space and finds an old stick of incense, lights it on the wick of my candle and starts dancing around like she’s at some weird, trippy rave.  She asks me what I’m doing and I tell her I’m trying to take a writing class.  I suggest she put down the fire stick and do something equally creative.  They are now sitting on the kitchen counter with uncapped markers, old rolls of tape and paper scraps.  I appreciate their creativity.  And then I think about how I just swept that area of floor.

My sparkle feels a bit dim now.  I feel overworked and run down.  I feel raw and exhausted and on edge.  Now my son wants me to help him re tape his sculpture and my daughter has unrolled my yoga mat right next to me.

I want them to do something fabulous and productive and educational and independent.  I don't want to worry about anything other than love in their heads.  I want to sit and write and stretch and go for a long hike in the woods alone. 

But, alas, this is the moment I have.