Most weekends the kids are home, Gary and I devote a significant amount of time to what should be basic hygiene for the kids: working knots out of hair, baths that actually involve soap, cutting ragged fingernails, swabbing unidentified substances from their ears, you name it. The longer it has been since the kids were home, the longer they have been relying upon Crow, the worse it is.
Recently, Crow finally went from mooching directly from her father to mooching from a slight distance; her daddy now pays for a house only a few miles from his. It must be better for appearances if she at least pretends to be an adult instead of a helpless suckling, although she has simply transferred from sucking off her daddy to sucking off Uncle Fester to earn her keep. Her sole contribution to the household still consists only of gleefully spreading her saggy thighs to whoever is posing as the so-called man of the house.
The “new” home apparently came with a horrific infestation of fleas. When the kids arrived at our home this past weekend, all four of them were covered with tiny, red, itchy bumps that they had scratched until layers of flesh were removed. They offered up the information that they were flea bites. No attempt was made by Crow to relieve the itching, despite the huge scabs and bloody spots the kids were creating on their legs, ankles, feet, and even their backs.
We broke out antiseptic, anti-itch cream, and anything else we could think of to stop the itching and heal the sores. The kids had scratched deep, raw spots on their bodies, making it hard to apply anything with alcohol, but we managed to get it under control.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. Crow is still failing in every way, but most of all, and saddest of all, as a parent.