The day began with the night. Small DB itching her head so hard and so often I thought she would awake bescabbed in the morning. Nits. Again. It seems that there might have been a few eggs left over on Small Z two weeks ago – and they have settled on her sister and built a thriving bloody empire. The child who has never had her hair washed due to all-consuming fury at the sight of the shampoo bottle.
But I discounted the power of television. She sat, first thing this morning, before the others were up, in front of three episodes of ‘Timmy Time’ while I combed gunk through her hair and displaced about a zillion bugs. And cut off the bottom of all her curls where the comb couldn’t get through them. She didn’t flinch.
But that wasn’t really what I was worried about – it was washing it OUT. In the end I laid her on the kitchen bench, head back over the sink, and poured jugs of water through the front of her hair. Then stuffed her in the shower to wash the back out. Far more painless than anticipated – which is good considering that I have to do it all every two days for the forseeable. Goddamnit.
Subsequently, M and I have both found a stray nit or two in our own hair and have gasped at them under the microscope *shudder* – the WASHING of the PILLOWCASES…argh. It feels like my mind is constantly a few steps behind itself – get the shopping, go to the library, put the chicken in the freezer, put out the washing, bring it in, PUT IT AWAY, hang out the next load, clean the chook home, dismantle Small Z’s bed, sweep the porch, find the floor, rejuvenate the kefir, put the pillowcases in the dryer on HOT, dinner? no idea…and so on…