Self-induced Frustration

I woke up this morning to the sound of a young female grew-up-in-Montana writer being interviewed about her collection of short stories on NPR.  Hey I’m a young female grew up in Montana writer.  I checked her blog.  In an interview she said something about making time to write everyday.  I thought to myself, “Hey I’m awake and the rest are still asleep on this Sunday morning.  I think I will get myself up and have some writing time. 

So I got up and went into the front room where I immediately faced the pink and blue princess and new technology sugar frosted detritis of my daughter’s birthday yesterday.  I started some water boiling for a quick cup of instant coffee in order to face it and to give me courage to write.

For some reason thoughts turned  (I suppose because of the radio conversations’ references to Montana and college) to an awkward dinner I once while in college, lonely, and apparently socially inept.  As a writer who doesn’t produce much and wonder why–I was aware with Zen-like clarity– of my movement as I jumped up to deal with the boiling water and coffee just as an image so clear and so full of potential as a short story popped into my head.  And as I was trying to figure out what was wrong with my life 20 years ago–when I was young and cute and didn’t know it–in a literary fiction sort of way,  my kid arouses herself and wanders through the room to the TV, which she turns on to a very loud episode of Spongebob Squarepants, lounges back against some pillows and declares that she is hungry.

I haven’t really written anything except that I remember an incident from when I was in college.

I find myself agreeing to–offering even– to make pancakes which I begin, still thinking I can satisfy my child with food and then go back to my writing –yeah right–that train has left the station;

I fill a bowl with pancake mix, oil and milk only then to discover that we are out of eggs.  I pull on some clothes, inform my husband that I am going out and head to a corner market for milk, and also the Sunday Paper which I see as I am paying for the eggs.

Back home again, I make pancakes and also coffee, out of beans this time for sharing with the spouse, instead of the instant that I had made for myself.  I hand deliver a cup of java to the spouse who is working now but on a laptop and still in bed so physically it feels like he is doing nothing and I am doing everything as I begin to burn the fake sausages and spill coffee beans in the soapy dish pan and try not to burn the pancakes by clinging steadfastly to my post in front of the stove while verbally mapping the location of the milk carton so my daughter can find it herself as though this were a game and she wore a blindfold.

The strong coffee and New York Times Real Estate Section make me tense and anxious as I broach the possibility of heading up to Lincoln Center to try to catch an ensemble-improvised-three-and-a-half-hour-long-French-language-theatrical-piece that was recommended by one of my clown friends who is single and lives in Manhattan.

My mind is full of the dishes in the sink and unwritten stories in my head as I apply sunscreen to myself and my offspring and follow her downstairs to act as her spotter as she practices using her new pink and black RIPSTICK on the sidewalk in front of our building.  I go down quickly without keys or cellphone so when we become hot and tired and The Husband still has not come down yet we cannot stop and go up for a drink of water.

And as I write this I am backtracking because I have just lost the edits I have just made which causes me to look at the clock and think of The Husband who is now in the park with My Kid and her RIPSTICK and how I still haven’t started the breakfast dishes which is the reason I ditched them and came back up to the apartment for a few minutes instead of going to the park with them for some family time and how really it is time now to be thinking about lunch…

And the phone rings and it’s My Kid calling from the park; “Mommy where are you?”

Passover Lice

Mrs Rosenfeld had just finished cleaning her kitchen for Passover when we arrived at 4 o’clock. The cupboards and drawers were empty and the countertops were bare. She was in the process of sending her two sons aged 2 and 3 outside with a teenage girl and a baby in a stroller. “Go for a long walk,” she instructed the older girl, before turning to me and explaining that the family had been to a wedding the night before and hadn’t gotten home until midnight and the children were cranky.

I brought my daughter to this Orthodox home in Brooklyn to be checked for lice, after obtaining the woman’s phone number from several other mothers on the playground at My Kid’s school. I called her the morning after I got an apologetic phone call from the mother of one of My Kid’s friends who had hosted My Kid for a playdate at her home the previous week. They had been to the lice lady and her daughter had them. After school the previous afternoon, another mother on the playground, who had already been through the lice ordeal with her twins some weeks prior became suspicious of the tiny white dots she noticed in the dark hair of this friend if her daughter who had also had playdates with My Kid.

If this had happened three years ago, I think I would have killed myself. There is no way I could have dealt with lice. Pillows on the couch. Laundry on the floor. My Kid climbing into our bed. Stuffed animals everywhere.

But, I have been listening to the lice stories of the other mothers on playgrounds and in kitchens for over three years. When it finally happened to us, I knew what to do. Call the legendary lice lady of Brooklyn and go get combed out in her kosher kitchen full of children.

I was kind of excited to go in that living-through-a-natural-disaster-where-nobody-gets-hurt way because I had heard so much about this Orthodox mother of 14 who pays her children’s Yeshiva school tuition combing out lice. It’s A BROOKLYN THING like eating cheesecake at Junior’s Restaurant or riding the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island, or having a conversation drowned out by the Q train passing over the waterfront playground in Dumbo.

This woman she’s AMAZING!

Mrs. Abigail F. Rosenfeld, Lice Consultant functions a family therapist. That’s what you’re paying for. We paid her almost as much as we paid the lawyer who did our taxes. But, it was worth it. There was an extra charge for the time it took to comb through my daughters butt-length hair which I didn’t mind paying and I bought an extra German-engineered surgical steel lice come out of sheer paranoia.

As Mrs. Rosenfeld combs the child’s hair she calms the parents and teaches them how to do it themselves. People do crazy things, she said. There is no need to cut a child’s hair. She tells parents not to panic or exhaust themselves.

When I first heard of lice I learned that you have to wash anything made of fabric in the house that the child has touched; All the bedding in the house, All the child’s clothes, Shampooing carpets and upholstery, wipe down every inch of everything and all the toys in the house have to be sealed in plastic bags for two months until the lice on them die. This sort of thing can be accomplished by quitting work and staying home to clean 24-hours a day for a solid week or two. I had also heard of killing the lice by covering the child’s head with olive oil or mayonnaise or some other goey disgusting substance and leaving it there for hours. On the internet I saw a video of a woman demonstrating going over a child’s head approximate 20 hairs at a time pulling off nits individually. It’s an impossible standard. And many schools have a no nit policy which means children can miss weeks of school while their mother struggles to figure out how to get rid of them and putting her own job in jeopardy staying home with kids who aren’t even sick.

This is what Abigail Rosenfeld Lice Consultant told me to do:

Wash all the child’s bedding and the bedding of any other bed she has been in or on. Vaucum all the furniture and carpeting. Wash the clothing the child has worn. The school backpack has to go into a plastic bag for two weeks. Stuffed animals go in plastic bags for two weeks. (Much less time than the two months I had in mind) If the animals or dolls is very special it can sit alone on a high shelf out of reach for two weeks. (and not suffocate in the plastic bag of stuffed animal jail as My Kid calls it.) If they hang together all the family’s coats need to be washed or dry cleaned but as the dry cleaning bills and exhaustion increase–if you can’t deal with it, just put it in a plastic bag for two weeks.

The combing out process itself is simple and takes place in her kitchen where she is the calm eye in the center of the storm as her own children run in and out with homework questions and requests for money to go to the corner store for ice cream or crispy snacks. As she works she speaks on the phone which rings frequently, talks to the parents of the child she combs and guides her children with words.

A boy of about six decides he doesn’t want the tuna bagel he just brought in from the corner store. She instructs him to put it into the refrigerator. Ten minutes later when the preschool boys arrive after their walk she tells someone else to get the bagel and divide it between the little ones.
“Give him some of your tuna bagel”
“It’s a mitzvah to share with your brother.”
“Could you get the toy of that top shelf for them.”
“Would you mind holding the baby.”
“Please take the laundry downstairs.”

First she puts Pantene conditioner on the child’s dry hair. (Pantene brand conditioner was not created to remove lice, but it is the right consistency to immobilize the bugs and it’s easy to see the tiny insects and nits against the product’s bright white color) She combs through the hair looking for lice. She wipes the conditioner off the comb onto a white tissue looking for lice which she then shows to the parents and children so they will know what to look for in the future. Second, she sprinkles some baking soda on top of the creme rinse and combs it out again, this time to get the nits, or lice eggs which I was also taught to identify. The baking soda acts as an abrasive and scrapes the nits off the hair shaft.

Her little children want juice and attention.
Her bigger children want homework help and cash for the corner store.

Because the kitchen was clean and bare while we were there, she was constantly handing out dollars to different children who went to the corner store for their after school snacks and collecting the change from them when they returned. One little boy came in with salty chips she didn’t like him to eat, but she let it slide after she made him share most of them with his brothers. When the tired two-year old started mouthing off she let it slide saying, “He’s a real boy.” The experienced mother of 14, recognized the futility of disciplining a tired and hungry two year old.

There are other older children, but I did not see them. Perhaps they choose not to pop into the kitchen while their mother was combing the lice out of some yet another strangers hair.
She told me one of her daughters prefers to use the fine-toothed metal comb for daily hair care. Gee I wonder why.

When her husband arrives home at the end of the work day, he moves about the house with a stethescope around his neck, as he continues to see patients in another room.

Mrs. Rosenfeld hadn’t yet started dinner when a family arrived from Manhattan, late for their 6:00 pm appointment. (In a Volvo, from Dalton, the Upper East Side school Mariel Hemingway’s character attended in the Woody Allen movie “Manhattan”)

I wondered if the Rosenfelds were able to keep up this pace because as Orthodox Jews they know that every Friday they will have to (or get to) turn everything off and stop working completely.

Putting things in plastic bags for two weeks. How similar to the preparation for Passover when all the bread must be removed from the house and countertops and other things are covered with plastic for the 8 days of passover.

As of the last day of school before spring break, 9 children in my daughter’s 3rd Grade class had been identified with lice.

Oh and by the way, the Third Plague in the story of Moses in the Book of Exodus: LICE

Just another manic Monday

After The Husband and My Kid left for work and school I drank coffee and thought about laundry, but I dressed for the gym and unlike other days when I put on sweats I actually made it to the Y. I didn’t get there in time for the class I had intended to take but I swam laps and took two other classes in addition so I’m feeling a little bit proud of myself. It counts as clown work because I’m not really in shape or have the stamina (to perform a full-length solo stage show) that I would like to have. On the way to pick up My Kid after school I stopped at a grocery store to buy some things for dinner, which I them proceeded to carry from Manhattan to her school in Brooklyn and then to the Barnes and Noble on Court Street and then to the Modells on Atlantic and through Atlantic Mall and the rest of the way home. Next time I’m going to the expensive corner store near our apartment. After supper I took the subway back into Manhattan to catch the last hour of Clown Lab because it was the first one in several months. Jef is back in town for the Broadway run of “Slava’s Snowshow” and I wanted to touch base with him and the regulars. “Snowshow” was reviewed by Charles Isherwood in the New York Times today. I found his description of the show as a “delightful kiddie curio” offensive even though it was a positive review.

Slava's Snowshow
Slava's Snowshow