There are a couple of words that strike fear in the heart of even the most battle-hardened parent. "Science project." "Oops." Any sentence, especially at three in the morning, that includes "poop," "sick," or "accident." There is one word, however, where the merest whisper prompts stomach-churning dread, tingling disgust, and barely controllable psychosomatic reactions.
Lice.
I had lice for six hellish weeks in 8th grade. The school nurse missed it twice. My dad dismissed them as "grass bugs or something" for the first month. It only ended thanks to a family friend who spent long hours meticulously combing my hair and a terrible crushed garlic, mayo, and vaseline concoction that succeeded where the store-bought shampoo failed. Even now, twenty odd years later, I itch just thinking about it.
*brief intermission for neurotic scratching*
Luckily, we've had relatively few close calls with the girls. Other than a friend or two who was exposed, and one time when we found several empty eggs in Bren's hair, we've never had a problem.
All of that changed the Monday before Thanksgiving. I woke up in the middle of the night, and I was itching. I didn't think anything of it...until I felt something move under my fingers. I had a brief and terribly tangible flashback to 8th grade. I was halfway out of bed to dig out one of my lice combs and go to town on my scalp, but decided sleep was more important. It was probably nothing. Even if it was, I'd already been in bed for hours, so there was no point in waking everybody up to sterilize the house at 2 a.m. for a whim. At least that's what I told myself.
A few hours later I sat the girls on the floor and started doing quick finger checks over their scalps. I was trying to be cheery but my nerves were rapidly fraying. As you know, my girls are extraordinarily hairy--an infestation would be a nightmare. It was all just precaution, anyway...right?
One by one I cleared the girls. By the time I got to Jane, I was holding my breath. Maybe this was all just in my head.
Then I got to Claudia. I lifted a hank of hair at her temple.
Her scalp skittered.
*ew ew ew ew ew ew ew ewwwwwwwwwww*
My stomach dropped. Everything suddenly felt contaminated; all I wanted was to go take a long, hot bleach shower and possibly burn my house down. Somebody else could deal with--oh wait. There wasn't anyone else.
Juuuuuust peachy.
I barked orders and the older girls started stripping beds and running laundry. Meanwhile, I girded for battle. I dug out my trusty lice comb, a handful of hair ties, a bowl of water, paper towels and several resealable plastic bags. After texting Rick to let him know, I sat on my couch, turned on cartoons, and tried to brace myself for the next several exhausting hours.
I pulled more bugs off Claudia than I care to remember. Echo, fortunately, only had a half-dozen or so, and a score of nits. By some strange miracle, the other girls were pristine. Then it was my turn. To my disgust, I was also hosting some unwanted guests, though not nearly as many as the smalls. By now Rick was home; though he had been checked by a coworker, the ER didn't want him working until he'd had a chance to be preventatively treated. He'd thoughtfully brought home several boxes of exorbitantly priced pesticidal shampoo.
The next several hours were a repeat of the first half of the day. Bugs or no bugs, everyone was shampooed and combed again and tightly braided; bedding and towels continued to get pushed through the washing machine. Fortunately, lice can't survive off the human scalp so we didn't have to exhaustively clean the house. I did, however, chase the kids and dogs out of the living room long enough to spray the couch down, though all five websites I checked said that was unnecessary. I was also grateful to find out that the dog could neither catch nor give us lice. Which is good, because I really didn't want to shave her.
It was late afternoon by the time we finished. I was done on just about every level. Luckily I live by one of my angel sisters-in-law. I had texted her earlier to let her know we'd exposed her family, and instead of telling me we were dead to her, she promptly insisted she'd take care of dinner. Pizza arrived at 5:30, and it was the best gift I'd had in a while.
The next 10 days were marked by daily combings for the entire family. They were probably more for my mental health than anything else, but I didn't care.
We never figured out where we picked them up. The Renaissance Faire we'd been to the week before was a suspect, but only because we couldn't think of any place else we might have been exposed. The fact that the infested--Echo, Claudia and I--had shared a sleeping bag leant some validation, but not conclusive proof. At any rate, all's well that end's well. All the lice and nits went straight to bug-hell and none of the girls had to be shaved (though, for the record, I think Leah could rock it).
And now...
*resumption of neurotic scratching*
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