I was never one of those girls who went shrieking for the hills when she saw a bug. I was raised in the country, and I’m proud of it. But when I pulled a tick out of my daughter’s blonde bangs last weekend, I flipped out. My breathing sped up, and as hard as I smushed a bunched-up napkin against the tick on the table, nothing would make that sucker die. 

I’ve written enough on healthcare issues to know one tick is no big deal. Especially considering this was: a) in her bangs rather than the scalp b) not embedded in the skin and c) it had been well under twenty-four hours since I’d last washed every inch of her body in a bathtub. We were well within the magic window for preventing Lyme disease. If I’d found the thing on me, I would have wrinkled my nose and flicked it away. At most, I might have said, “gross” and moved on. 

But this wasn’t me. This was my three-year-old, who had just been crawling around in the giant plastic tubes suspended over the mass chaos that is Saturday at kiddie crack land (more on that for another post). The unseasonably warm November weather had no doubt brought the ticks out to hop off a family dog onto the jeans of one of the hundred or so kids who’d crawled through that same tube in the past half hour. Thankfully, black stands out in blonde hair.

I wasn’t thankful. I was hyperventilating. And while my friend’s husband calmly reached over and smashed his mother-in-law’s disposable camera against the offending bug, I shrieked to my husband to start checking every inch of her hair. “NOW,” I practically bellowed. Bless him, he didn’t argue. He just started fingering through her locks, one arm locked around her wiggling waist. He didn’t have the energy to fight with both of us. Hours later, I deposited my daughter at my parents’ house for a sleepover and reminded my mother at least a dozen times that she needed to do an extra tick check. “Make sure you check her hair,” I told a woman who’s spent more than thirty years in healthcare. “Oh, and behind her knees.” “And under her armpits.” 

Finally, she shot me the look that said, “I raised two kids and managed to graduate from graduate school. I can handle a three-year-old for one night. Get over yourself.” I got while the getting was good, but I’ll admit it wasn’t easy.

I’ve crossed the line from kooky to crazy, but at least I can admit it. Am I really the only one? 

Image: Introverted Bride

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