Finally. After years of prevention and being careful, after all this time managing to squeak through unscathed, it's happened: lice.

My toddler's daycare reported an outbreak and sure enough, the little buggers were taking up residence in my little girl's beautiful halo of curly hair. They also chose to camp out in my teen's crowning glory as well — the whole two-foot length of reddish curls.

I spent that first day giving chemical treatments that choked my lungs while consoling my shame-ridden teen and rolling my eyes at my toddler. She bounced around the house announcing, "I have BUGS in my HAIR. Do YOU?"

No, thank god.

The beds have been stripped and sheets were washed in near-boiling water. The house is vacuumed daily. All plushy toys were either disinfected or sent into quarantine. Heads were picked through multiple times. We've done all we can. The electricity bill will be sky high this month and I'm exhausted, but that's alright. Bugs, be gone.

But forgive me. I couldn't suppress the dirty look I gave my teen's father when he sauntered in for a visit the other day and chuckled when he heard the news. I couldn't help the smart remark that escaped me when my toddler's father said, "The house looks like a wreck."

Yes. Yes it does. Singlehandedly and with no prize from anyone, I've managed to pull myself together to play Supermom for a week. I've put aside all my other obligations and responsibilities, I've forgotten my worries and concerns, and I've focused 100% on my kids.

Alone. With no help. One would think that being a father meant that you pitched in to help your kids when they needed it, but it seems not. Whoever holds the custody is the one to drop it all and come to the rescue, come hell or high water.

"I never wanted you to leave," one of my exes said thoughtfully. "You wanted this. Now deal."

Thank you for your sympathy, buddy — dealing is exactly what I'm doing.