My eight years old daughter has head lice, again! This is the second time in about six months.
My immediate reaction is of disgust. The mere thought of the parasitic creatures sucking my beloved one’s blood is just a cry for hasty extermination. This is war; every louse will be eliminated, every nit will be physically rooted out and destroyed. As soon as I had discovered the infestation, I start scratching my head like a mad woman. Paranoid that I too may be infested. Disgusting.
I start to browse through my child’s hair, meticulously removing nits with my fingers and then squashing them between my thumb nails to deduce if they are life or empty eggs.
I start to browse through my child’s hair, meticulously removing nits with my fingers and then squashing them between my thumb nails to deduce if they are life or empty eggs.
My daughter is slumped horizontally along the sofa, her head nestling upon my thighs; she jerks her head slightly in accordance as I systemically sweep different areas of the head. She’s relaxed and begins lapping up the attention that I’m giving her head.
“Mummy” she says. “I like getting nits, because you touch me a lot”.
Awwwwwwww…. At this point, the lice and nits are no longer enemies; they are welcomed visitors. Serious quality bonding time here.
Suddenly, my fingers fanatically scramble around a specific area. I have just stumbled upon a louse and I try desperately to tramp it but the bugger is too fast.
Spotting a louse on the head send alarm bells. It raises the disgustingness ten folds. If I’m to win this war, I need super fighting power which will penetrate every notch and cranny: Pediculicide shampoo.
I prepare the shampoo, towels and comb. My daughter sits patiently with a ponderous face. I section her hair into different batches. Vocalising my actions, and announcing that the sections will be treated in chronological order; from left to right, bottom to top. The shampoo bottle at hand almost ready to inject the first few strands of hair. When my daughter asks:
“Mummy, when you put the shampoo, do the mummy and daddy lice go back to where they had laid the eggs and pick the eggs up and run away, with the eggs”.
Suddenly, my fingers fanatically scramble around a specific area. I have just stumbled upon a louse and I try desperately to tramp it but the bugger is too fast.
Spotting a louse on the head send alarm bells. It raises the disgustingness ten folds. If I’m to win this war, I need super fighting power which will penetrate every notch and cranny: Pediculicide shampoo.
I prepare the shampoo, towels and comb. My daughter sits patiently with a ponderous face. I section her hair into different batches. Vocalising my actions, and announcing that the sections will be treated in chronological order; from left to right, bottom to top. The shampoo bottle at hand almost ready to inject the first few strands of hair. When my daughter asks:
“Mummy, when you put the shampoo, do the mummy and daddy lice go back to where they had laid the eggs and pick the eggs up and run away, with the eggs”.
Woooooooooe…………
“No, the mum and dad do not have hands and therefore cannot pick up the eggs”. I reply
She grabs hold of my bottle held hand and lowers it.
“That mean the eggs will be die too!”
“Yes darling, the whole family will die!”
She pulls an uncertain face. A face that says ‘I don’t think this is right’.
I hesitate. She tilts her head in downward silence.
I’m lost as to what to do next. Then suddenly she says:
“Why can’t we take them all from my head and put them in a box so they can live together”
Ouch ouch ouch.
Now I’m going to be labelled as a mass murderer who wipes out entire families. Alternatively, I could leave the infestation as my daughter likes the idea that she providing a home for these creatures. I could intermittently control check the population by nit-picking. The rewards of the latter option; quality bonding time, makes me ponder as to what a good caring mother should do!
“No, the mum and dad do not have hands and therefore cannot pick up the eggs”. I reply
She grabs hold of my bottle held hand and lowers it.
“That mean the eggs will be die too!”
“Yes darling, the whole family will die!”
She pulls an uncertain face. A face that says ‘I don’t think this is right’.
I hesitate. She tilts her head in downward silence.
I’m lost as to what to do next. Then suddenly she says:
“Why can’t we take them all from my head and put them in a box so they can live together”
Ouch ouch ouch.
Now I’m going to be labelled as a mass murderer who wipes out entire families. Alternatively, I could leave the infestation as my daughter likes the idea that she providing a home for these creatures. I could intermittently control check the population by nit-picking. The rewards of the latter option; quality bonding time, makes me ponder as to what a good caring mother should do!
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