So went the taunt of schoolchildren, teasing the sister of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s future husband. I don’t know why I always remembered that quote. Maybe it was because it was the first time I understood the origin of the word “lousy.” (I’m a word nerd, and I find etymology fascinating.) But I remember reading whichever one of those Little House-line books before I even knew what lice were. Oh, those were the days.
Because now, I am intimately familiar with lice, having just been personally acquainted with them. I had the pleasure of also putting a reality behind the phrases “nit-picking” and “going over with a fine-toothed comb” in addition to lousy. Yes, my daughters have lice.
Or, hopefully, had lice. My husband and I had to quickly return from a weekend trip before it had really even begun to spare anyone else’schildren from contracting the highly-contagious affliction. It began as I noticed a bug in my daughter’s hair while we were outside at my husband’s grandmother’s house. As I tried to free it from her hair, thinking it errantly flew into her locks while we were on the patio, I noticed that her scalp just appeared to be dirty. I found that disturbing enough, and at that time still had no idea what was to come.
As a little background info, let me explain a little about my personal make-up. I don’t consider myself a particularly squeamish person. I’m not exactly fond of the sight of blood, but it’s really just seeing my own that gives me any issue. Ironically, I can almost watch someone else spout it from an artery and still act with control and good judgment. As a mother of two, I have also been peed on, puked on, pooped on and more, without breaking down. But I have a little thing about germs, and creepy-crawly insects. Not so much about the fact that they exist in the world, but about the prospect that they may exist on me. Accordingly, the idea of bugs that live and feed and breed on you absolutely, positively freaks me out. My mind ponders what prompted the term “skin-crawling” to become everyday English.
So, after discovering what appeared to be a head simply in desperate need of a good shampooing, I threw the girls in the tub. Though I thought it was the result of my five-year-old’s recent playground excursion, I still had a feeling that it may be more than just a dirty scalp. I realized that I was projecting that fear through my hands when my daughter complained that I was scrubbing her head too hard.
The truth of the matter sank in when I began combing her newly-washed hair, and saw a little critter running along her part. I grabbed a Kleenex and removed it, only to see a second. My heart starting beating faster and I felt a little ill. When I saw the third one, I stood up and calmly (ha!) walked out of the room to find her father. I knew better than to let on to my little girl, who takes after her mother in many ways, that there were bugs in her hair. The ensuing panic and hysteria would have complicated the matter just a bit.
My husband left for the pharmacy as I tried to smile and calm my nerves. I felt like I, too, was covered with insects, and couldn’t stop itching. I knew, in that part of your mind that is aware that you are being irrational, that it was just a psychosomatic reaction, but I couldn’t shake it just the same. Having given up anxiety meds after finishing law school and taking the bar, I reached for a beer instead. I think it was 10 a.m.
When their dad returned with Nix, the shampoo/insecticide that is pharmacist-recommended, the girls were still blissfully unaware of their condition. (I noticed my two-year-old had little specks in her hair, and didn’t bother to creep myself out anymore by trying to locate any live little buggers.) We determined that the trip must be cancelled and we must return home to clean heads, clothes and disinfect the entire house. I felt sick to my stomach and took another swig of beer. I scratched at my own head and knew for certain that I, too, was infested with lice.
We called my husband’s cousin to alert him of the situation. He, not being a mother, so not inherently knowing everything, tried to say that we should still come stay with him, his wife, and their two little boys. I told my husband to relay how bad of an idea that was, since we would just be transporting the nasty little parasites to their home as well, dooming their boys and possibly them to itchy noggins, too. Still, our would-be host called his wife to see what she said (at the suggestion of my husband). The prompt return phone call confirmed the infinite wisdom of women: his wife educated him on the highly contagious properties of a head full of lice.
We bid farewell to my husband’s grandmother, threw all of the used linens in the wash, and Lysol-ed the recliner that my daughter adopted to watch cartoons in that morning. We crawled into the car, bugs and all, and began our three-hour drive home to the House of Lice.
The following 36 hours were a blur of shampooing, combing, vacuuming washing, bagging, and skin-crawling. The children have been de-loused, and my husband and I underwent the same treatment. By the grace of God, we were not infected, though I cannot imagine how we escaped it. That knowledge greatly reduced my creepy-crawly feelings, though they aren’t completely eradicated. The poor girls will have to submit themselves to another combing over tonight, to be sure we got every little speck out, and we will still maintain a vigilance with the constant cleaning of laundry, upholstery and basically every other surface — just in case. I spoke with a mom-friend who had experienced this nightmare only a few months ago (are those little buggers still hanging out at daycare?), and she plainly told me that it was a hellish experience for them, recurring several times until they were finally lice-free. I cannot bear for that to happen here, so we’ll just have to adopt OCD cleaning procedures.
Though the ordeal left me totally exhausted, allowing my mind to wander for even a moment meant that I started slightly freaking out again. (I dreamt vividly of the time when I adopted a puppy from a rescue operation, only to discover she was covered from head-to-paws in fleas. I could perfectly recall the time spent bathing the shivering little pup with flea shampoo, and combing what looked like millions of tiny black dots into the water and down the drain.) I needed a distraction, lest I scratch my skin raw. So, I escaped into a book — Christine, by Stephen King. I thought I had read it before, but apparently not. It did the trick, submersing me into another world until I could no lnger keep my eyes open. I finished it in my usual 24-hour timespan. I devour books like Christine chews up roadways.
I am preparing for another burst of cleaning now, as I try not to claw at the multitude of bug bites on my legs. Ironically, I was able to avoid a lice infestation only to dangle my legs as bait for the no-see-ums and other biting (and seemingly invisible) insects that ravaged me as I sat on that patio downing a beer or two. A trade-off, I suppose. My skin crawls just thinking about these covert bugs dining on me.
I like etymology, but entomology is not my bag, baby.
