When a notice came from April’s school that lice had been found among her classmates, I did what every mom does.  I sent my fingers walking through April’s hair, desperately hoping I wouldn’t find any squirming critters.  Finding nothing but a little dandruff,  I decided a change in shampoo was in order.

Over the next two weeks, I was preoccupied preparing for my parents 50th anniversary celebration in Colorado.  All the family from across the country was traveling to stay in a mountain cabin for a week-long reunion.  Kids, adults, grandparents — everyone was to be together all week.

And April began to scratch her head.  And scratch.  And scratch.

The new shampoo was not helping her.  We had two days remaining before our trip, so I squeezed April in for a visit to her pediatrician.  The first thing the doctor said was “Maybe she has lice.” I shook my head.  “I don’t think so.  I checked.”

“Well.  Let’s take another look.”  And bowing over April’s head and dividing her hair, the doc and I saw a little winged pest scrambling to hide itself.

“Oh, no.”  I said.  The attending nurse backed toward the door.

“Now don’t feel bad,” the doctor said.  “Having lice doesn’t mean your house is dirty or disgusting.  It just means that April had contact with someone else who had lice.  She has a pretty bad case, too.”

And then the doctor showed me that all the dusty-looking specks that I had mistaken for dandruff were actually eggs.   And those countless eggs were glued to each hair shaft with a cement-like substance so strong that removing them amounted to a herculean effort.  “A lice comb will help with that. . .You also need to look for the so-called nymphs, the larvae that grow wings as they mature.” Every mature female louse was busy laying up to 100 eggs on my daughter’s head, and the mature lice could survive up to 30 days, feeding on their host’s blood. (April was now being referred to as a “host”).  So I had to
wash in hot water or freeze all the stuffed animals, bedding, pillows, etc., etc., in the house and car.  And I kept staring at the doctor, during all these instructions, thinking, “I’m supposed to leave for Colorado with this kid day-after-tomorrow. ”

I washed April’s hair with the over-the-counter lice shampoo.  I went to the laundromat and did 12 loads of heavy-duty laundry.  I bagged all the stuffed animals and dragged them to the basement.  Around midnight, I washed my hair with the same recommended shampoo.  And the next day I went through April’s hair — for hours — as she alternately cried and retreated into stoical calm.

The morning we left on our two-day drive to Colorado, I soaked April’s hair in olive oil — to suffocate any surviving lice — and swathed her head in plastic wrap.  The poor girl marinated across three states.  That night, in our hotel room, I picked through her hair and tried to dispose of the nits as carefully as possible. (Don’t think about this the next time you rent a hotel room.) The next morning, as we drove into the mountains, I found another winged louse in April’s hair:  The
lice shampoo hadn’t worked.  The olive oil hadn’t worked.  My picking hadn’t worked.  I burst into tears and dialed our pediatrician’s office in panic:  “You’ve got to HELP me!  (I told the nurse.)  These things aren’t going away, and everyone’s going to hate me because I’m bringing lice to a family reunion. . ."  The nurse said, “Oh boy, that’s awful.” And the nurse called the doctor and the doctor called in a super-strength lice prescription to the mountain pharmacy, and that night, I dosed my daughter — again — with a potentially carcinogenic shampoo.

My family, fortunately, laughed about the whole thing, and supported me as I continued to pick — all week — through April’s hair.  We all tried not to scratch our heads whenever we thought about lice.  I’m sure that what finally won the battle was the hours spent pulling those persnickety eggs off each strand of my daughter’s hair.  I can’t say I blame April now for hating having her hair combed.

And by the way, having lice does NOT mean your house is dirty or disgusting. 

Susan Lewis is a mom of two adopted daughters, who tries to balance staying at home with staying sane and writing on the side.  She contributes to this blog as a way of recording some of the funnier, poignant moments of parenting young children as an older mom (late forties and holding).  She has changed her children’s names and her own name for confidentiality’s sake. (What kid would want complete strangers to know these stories?)  April, now six, was adopted from
China.  Bee, now four, was adopted from Ethiopia.  And Charming, her husband, is an introverted Norwegian-American, who most definitely wants to remain anonymous.  You can contact Susan Lewis at SuLew4blog@gmail.com.