Lousy

OK, it's been a few months, so I can talk about it now: we got head lice.

Those of you who have had lice before can empathize with me. You know exactly how miserable it is.

Those of you who haven't can feel free to judge and stigmatize, because you probably still think lice only comes as a result of poor hygiene. I won't try and dissuade you, but you'll probably eat your words one day when your 5 year old brings it home from school. Then you can call me. I'll come over and help you get rid of it.

Lice is so gross. I've seen it a lot before as a school nurse, but it's a whole different ballgame when you have it yourself. When you get it, you feel like you have this dirty secret, and that nobody can know about the creepy critters sneaking around your scalp, feeding off of your blood and laying hundreds of eggs on your hair follicles. Killing the live bugs is the easy part. Some OTC lice shampoo will take care of them in ten minutes. No, the hard part is getting rid of the nits (lice eggs). I can't tell you how many hours I spent prying eggs from every strand of Alaina's hair. Let me tell you, it gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "nit picking." I'll never use those words as criticism again. DO YOU KNOW HOW CRUCIAL NIT PICKING IS? If you don't pick every nit out of your hair, then in 7-10 days you'll have a whole new batch of bugs crawling around you head. It's even worse when mom gets lice, because who will comb all the nits out of her hair? Caleb was a trooper, but the poor guy was out of his element. He doesn't even know how to put hair in a pony tail, so watching him try to navigate my hair with a lice comb bore a strong resemblance to a 6 month old baby trying to use a spoon for the first time.

Your head has probably started itching, hasn't it? Sorry.

So anyway, I have no idea where we got lice from, but if it strikes again, I'm busting out my clippers, and we're all getting pixie haircuts.

PhDone

He did it! Caleb defended his thesis on Monday, which means he is set for graduation in May! I was able to watch his defense, and although I didn't understand a word he said, I've never been prouder! (OK, I understood about 10%. I even laughed at a joke about polymers that one of the professors cracked. But seriously, the depth of Chemistry knowledge blew my mind.) I've learned a few things about PhD programs that I thought I'd share.

1. A thesis defense is basically like this, just 20 times longer, and instead of weapons there are impossible questions and wild postulations flying around. Waiting at the end is a firm handshake if you're lucky, but thankfully no poison.

2. The entire academic world is addicted to coffee.

3. These people are title hungry. It's all about the coveted "Doctor" title. Don't even think about calling a professor "Mr. Smith," and using a first name might just get you killed. Caleb now has the kids calling him "Doctor Daddy." I'm feeling rather jealous that all my work over the last 5 years hasn't earned me some more letters after my name, so I'm awarding myself a Doctorate of Motherhood. I am now Lindsey Snell Miskin, RN, MomD.

4. Consider the following analogy. Grad student : free food :: Moth : Flame. Tell me, would you sit through 2 full hours of boring science gibberish for a free bagel? They would.

5. How does a Mormon grad student with a wife and 2 kids survive on a stipend meant to support one single person? Easy: Don't drink alcohol and cook at home. We've discovered that grad students blow about 10% of their income on booze, and the rest of it at restaurants. So choose either "tithing and family" or "booze and take-out," but either way the pay is pretty comparable.

We're very relieved to be graduating, but next comes the stress of finding/starting a job. I'm pretty supportive of whatever Caleb wants to do and wherever Caleb wants to go. My one stipulation is this: I don't want to have this baby in the back of a U-Haul.

It's been a few months since my last post because lately I lack anything witty and/or earth shattering to share. (Besides that I'm pregnant.) I guess that's big news, but not really when it's your 3rd baby, and the reaction from the general public has switched from "How exciting!" to "I think you're insane," or "Don't you think the world already has enough mouths to feed?" Not that anybody has said as much with their mouths, but their faces say a whole lot. 

Today, two kids is the magic number in this society. ("Congrats, you've done your civic duty and replaced yourselves in the population!") But any more than that, and people start to roll their eyes at you in the grocery store. To the "My, you'll certainly have your hands full!" remark I often receive, I have the prepped response, "Full hands, and an even fuller heart." And it's true! I'm more thrilled with this pregnancy than either of the others, so I really don't like it when strangers throw a wet blanket on my excitement.

Granted, like the stock market, some years are better than others. (2014 was a doozy for me.) But, also like the stock market, things always, and I mean ALWAYS, go up. Insert brief economics lesson here: Please refer to below figure of the Dow Jones Industrial Average from 1900-2012.

See? Always up in the long term. So I'm investing in my happiness future, and expecting huge returns. 

(BTW I'm due Sept. 24, and we won't find out gender.)

Aging

I had a few reality checks recently to remind me that I'm no spring chicken anymore.

The first one happened in December when I looked in the mirror and noticed several obnoxious white hairs in my eyebrow. Guys, I'm going gray already. Eyebrows, really? That would happen to me. Now about a quarter of my eyebrow is completely white. Combine that with my pasty-white complexion, and I have to pencil them in or else children will start running for cover when the old Albino lady comes around.

And then there was the trip to the mall that really reminded me of my age. I had never set foot in H&M before this month. Not that I have anything against it; I just try to avoid the mall like the plague (another age indicator). But it's hard to turn down a gift card, so Caleb and I braved the land of hipsters, tweens, and that irresistible Cinnabon aroma. When we entered H&M, our first clue that we didn't belong was our confusion over whether we were in the men's or women's section. Where I come from men don't wear pastels and women don't wear over-sized flannel lumber-jack tops or combat boots. Also, I was just getting used to the women's skinny jean trend, but I don't think I'll ever be ok with my husband wearing them. And let's talk about the frayed denim look: If I want my pants ripped up, I'll just run them through a cheese grater, thank you very much. We wandered aimlessly and nervously through the store for about an hour before Caleb found something he could wear and still retain his self-respect. But it was miserable, and we're never going back.

My Christmas Carol

My family started a new thing this year: a family Christmas talent show. I was planning on doing a dramatic reading from a scene in A Christmas Carol, but nixed the idea after all the unrelenting mockery and teasing from my sisters. ("Nerd alert!", "that's so Lindsey," etc).
Instead I wrote/performed an original song that pretty much summed up 2015:

"On the 12th day of Christmas my children gave to me:
12 dirty diapers
11 temper tantrums
10 loads of laundry
9 runny noses
8 tiny teeth marks
7 sleepless nights
6 urgent care trips
5 yearrrrs in grad schoooool...
4 timeouts
3 messy meals
2 bottoms spanked
And we're one big happy family!"

And speaking of the family talent show, somebody probably should have screened Corrie's talent.