How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Well, it wasn’t exactly a vacation in the traditional sense, but for some of us, the notion of a “vacation” is a relative concept. Vacating one set of activities and interests for some different activities and interests is not necessarily and always a case of transitioning from the vocational to the recreational.

Pediculus humanus capitis

The dreaded head louse infiltrated and occupied my home and children, keeping my son out of summer school and in my hair. I would have preferred lice instead, but they apparently don’t like color-treated hair that is saturated in hair spray. I love my little Guy, but I need a break from his neurodiversity so that I might remain somewhat neurotypical.

I spent much of my summer vacation committing genocide upon those little buggers. I poisoned them with permethrin, I electrocuted them with a RobiComb, I polluted their favored environments with various oils (olive, mineral, and baby); I rounded them up with metal combs, and flushed them down the toilet. Any that managed to escape the relative safety of my children’s heads were fumigated, suffocated in plastic bags, scalded in my washing machine, or sucked into my vacuum cleaner.

It’s pretty easy to kill the bugs themselves; it’s their eggs that are hard to get rid of because they are attached to the hairs with louse saliva, which is a substance that no solvent suitable to be safely applied to the human head can dissolve. The only way to deal with them is to commit infanticide upon the nymphs sometime between their hatching and maturation. But that still leaves the nits, the empty eggshells that all public school personnel can find readily even after several hours of parental nitpicking.

I eventually prevailed and all of my children are still — knock my wooden head through my overstyled hair — louse and nit-free. We are now in prevention mode, which means that the girls wear their hair in braids or buns while the boy gets his styled with that greasy kids’ stuff.

College Prep

My stepson is now a college man. He received a scholarship that covered most of his tuition, and is likely more intellectually ready for his higher education than many of his peers, but practical concerns remain because this is his first time living on his own. Only time will tell if his initial launch will be successful.

We got him a car, a computer, a cell phone, a bank account, and a furnished apartment on campus, which we stocked with various and sundry household items. We paid his tuition and bought his books, and we’ll be sending him a monthly fixed allowance that should cover his basic needs with enough left over for a little fun — if he manages his budget efficiently.

But no matter how well prepared he may be in the material sense I still cannot help feeling that we simply commanded him to “fly!” and kicked him out of the nest.

Of course, preparations for this day began many years ago and continued throughout his upbringing, which appears to have produced a young man who is self-reliant and considerate of others.

I have both confidence and concerns, but only time will tell which is warranted.

Milestone

My Father, Anthony Romao, died on July 29, 2006 at the Hospice House Woodside in Pinellas Park, which is the same hospice where Terri Schiavo passed in March of 2005 — Dad would have appreciated the reference, even if others may think it crass.

Dad was diagnosed with colon cancer and given six months to live back in December of 2003. As was usual for him during his lifetime as an overachiever, he beat the odds several times over. In the end, however, he went quickly and quietly with his dignity in tact.

My mother, my sister, her husband, and I sat vigil for two days while my husband stayed home with our four children. Late on the evening of the second day, we were about ready to call it a night — or at least take a break and get something to eat — when a nurse came in to check Dad’s vital signs, and told us that the end was likely very close. We decided that I would stay with Mom while my sister and brother-in-law went to pick up some fast food.

A few minutes after they left, Dad took a breath, let it out, and didn’t take another. My mother and I sat suspended for a second or two, not sure of what to do because it seemed so unreal, so uneventful. “I’ll get somebody,” I said.

I went to the nurses’ station and asked, “I think he’s gone, can one of you come and check?”

A nurse followed me back to my father’s room. She felt his wrist and neck and then said simply, “he’s left us.” That made it real, it was now an official event, a milestone.

And that is all I have to say about that — but please do check out Drunken Data for my husband’s tribute, it’s really good.

Going Forward

History is an unchanging and unalterable constant and destiny is an uncertain and sometimes frightening beast that remains unknowable until it actually happens. It is those fleeting moments in between that make life worth living.

I live for today because tomorrow may never come, but I do try to stay prepared just in case it does.