The Tick Story

I've had a lot of people (okay, maybe 6 or 7) ask me to elaborate on that tick story I mentioned in my 1st post. Funny, now that I think about it, no one asked me to expound on my aspirations of becoming the Secretary of State... See, I was right, I'm not that interesting.

Let me set the scene:

1) My husband is out of town - not uncommon, as he travels a lot. I mean, a lot. Not in-the-military-deployed-to-Iraq a lot (those couples have earned their place in heaven as far as I'm concerned), but enough to where my kids know that we're having "breakfast for dinner" at least once or twice a week.

2) In an attempt to be cost efficient, I don't tell the babysitter to come until exactly the time I have to leave (can you believe what babysitters make these days? I used to babysit a Mormon family with 7 kids for three bucks an hour. I got robbed).

3) Between the hours of 5:30 and 7:00pm, the following things had to get done: I've got to shower, find something to appropriate to wear, find something inappropriate to wear, find something that "will do" because nothing else looks reasonable, get dressed, slap on some warpaint (what my Dad refers to as make-up), make sure homework is done, lunches are packed for school, feed the goldfish, the dog, and the children (not necessarily in that order), check to see the kids have (relatively) clean uniforms to wear the next day, put a load of laundry in the washer so that the kids have clean uniforms to wear, fold the load that's in the dryer so the can wear dry, clean uniforms, bathe the kids, and find my shoes.

4) In between all that, I attempt to blow-out my pre-baby, poker straight but now curly out of control hair. Then put my half curly half straight coiffure in a ponytail because I run out of time.

I hear the kids excitedly discussing something about a spider. "Mom, come see him, he's really cool." I holler downstairs to make sure that in their excitement, they haven't left their chicken nuggets to drown in their ketchup, which they have, and hustle them back to their seats at the table. No big deal, I'm all about nature, so long as it's not one of the nesting black widows I found outside the basement door. Actually, I'd assumed that it was a dead spider that they'd found in one of our windowsills...since we've lived in our house for 6 years and I've maybe cleaned those things twice, there's plenty of exoskeletons from which to choose. Mind you, this was around 5:30.

About 45 minutes later, I come downstairs and they are all on the couch, in heated discussion about something. They've lost the spider and are forming a search team to find him. I recall thinking that it might actually be a live spider since it's lost, but then again, maybe it's dead, featherlight carcass just rolled under the couch. Anyway, it gives them something to do other than fight.

My mind, like a laser beam, is focused on my next task of making school lunches. After all, it is a girls night out and I might have a glass or two of wine, so the more I get done now, the less maneuvering in the morning. I give them a passing nod, glad to see that they have finished their soggy nuggets without smearing ketchup on the couch. They've found the spider, oh joy of joys, and are passing it around in celebration. I overhear that the spider now has a name. I recall thinking, "hmm, I guess it must be alive if they're giving it a name."

Lunches done and kitchen cleaned up, it's back upstairs, to run the bath for the kids and finish the hair (read: grab the ponytail holder). Now it's crunch time, and the kids are neither clean, nor in their PJs, as I'd promised the sitter, who agreed to sit under the impression that the kids would be ready for bed so she could study for a test the following day.

Calling for the kids to come up and take a bath, I get no response. An argument is growing over Charlie the Spider, who is going to keep him for the night, in their room. Time for an intervention. Back down the stairs again, and my then-five year old extends his arm to show me Charlie and plead his case. I can't see the spider at first, as it is on the underside of his arm, but being a good sport, I ask to hold Charlie while I attempt to negotiate a deal. After a brief pause, my five year old plucks a crawling Charlie from his arm and hands him to me.

Charlie is a tick.

Charlie the tick, has been found, then lost, then found again. In my kitchen and living room. For two hours.

He's been given a name, a home, some new friends, but thankfully, not a meal.

Now, where are my shoes?