Sugar and spice (and a little headlice)

29 November 2007 Christmas Fair

When Saffron was a wee one, I used to get slightly unnerved if I didn't hear her moving or breathing in the middle of the night. Or day, for that matter. (I have been known to be quite demanding, even of week-old infants). And even when I did hear her, I would sometimes think, maybe it wasn't her, maybe it was something else. So often we would get out of bed, trudge over to her cot to take a peep, place our hand on her for a good few seconds and at the detection of her little body moving with each breath she drew, we would drag ourselves groggily (but happily) back into bed with a palpable sense of relief. I have to confess that sometimes we would even nudge or rouse her, just to be sure.

I realise it's a little macabre, but it's a real fear that parents live with everyday. At least I do. But these days I no longer wake up in the middle of the night to put my hand on Saffron to feel for her breath. Not because I have outgrown my morbid fear (highly unlikely), and not because I am less enamoured of my firstborn (highly improbable). But rather because she's a heavy breather (ok, some might say a light snorer. Depends if you're a half-cup-full or half-cup-empty sort of person), and a right little Kungfu Kicker, so I always know she's there, next to me, alive and kicking. Literally.

So you can imagine it was rather worrying when I received a phonecall on my mobile late morning last Thursday, from school. Not long after I had dropped her off that same morning and waved her goodbye as I left the Assembly Hall. I have to say I held my breath as her teacher explained to me why she had rung. Turned out there had been a headlice outbreak in her class and Saffron had been one of the Chosen Five. So I had to rush over to take her out of school before it continued to spread. Of course my sense of relief that it wasn't anything more serious was rapidly replaced by slightly less selfless thoughts relating to the potential infestation of my own hair (don't judge me, just love me).

After I put the phone down with Mrs Lamont, this is what I did:
1. Ran through mental checklist of when I could possibly have caught the headlice from Saffron. Unlikely. I had only just returned very late the previous night from France, she had already been sound asleep. Wait a minute, didn't I cuddle her and sniff her hair that morning?
2. Panicked a little. You look at Mothers and they seem to have the perfect answer and remedy to Every Crisis Situation. So you almost assume that when it comes to your turn, Motherhood will come with the Answersheet. That somehow the overnight stretchmarks also come with some wisdom to compensate. But it doesn't work like that. You don't suddenly know how to deal with headlice, how to dress a wound or how to get fingerpaints off cashmere just because you're a mother.
3. Googled 'Headlice'. What did our parents do before the internet age? You have to admire them for coping nevertheless. Though my google search completely debunked my long-held belief - no doubt in part instilled by my own very well-meaning and highly effective mother - that headlice can fly (they don't have wings, silly) and jump (no hind legs for jumping either, get with the programme). No wonder witches were burnt at the stake.
4. Read aloud the instructions line by line to Aunty Myrna (our supernanny) who promptly set off with almost militariy precision to change and wash all bedlinen and clothes that might have had any contact with our Head(lice) Girl.
5. Took a deep breath.
6. Started to feel my own head itch. Like mad.
7. Drove to school in under 4 minutes. Quite a feat considering I was navigating traffic whilst looking for any evidence of headlice in the car.

Saffron's excitement and delight (I say delight because she was really beaming from ear to ear when I arrived to pick her up) at the unusual turn the morning had taken was quickly replaced by anxiety when I explained to her why I was taking her out of school. Her shortlived protest in the school corridor wasn't because of the headlice - she was rather excited by the drama of it all, being fussed over, medicated, combed several times over, having her little head searched for any evidence of the Mother Louse, and being able to sit at home in her smalls watching CBBies in the middle of the school day - but rather because she was aghast at the idea that she might not be able to return to school permanently. When I assured her that she would be coming back, she calmly took my hand and happily walked out of the school with me.

As luck would have it, Thursday evening was also the school's Christmas Fair, for which we had bought all our tickets and game tokens and to which we had been looking forward for several weeks. So the plan was to get Saffron home, douse her in the strongest medication we could find for love or money, for as many hours as we could, only then would she be allowed to rejoin her friends at the Fair that evening. Which is exactly what we did.

By the time we got home via a detour to the pharmacist (to pick up medication and a bright pink headlice comb) and drycleaners (to drop off Saffron's woolly hat and school blazer), the situation at home had been brought under control, any further possible contamination had been contained. And yes, there was a little bit more of googling on my part, but all in all I think we handled it well, all things considered.

We made it to the Christmas Fair that evening, where Saffron kept her hair hidden under a woolly hat whilst she tried her hand at velcro darts (hasn't really got my knack, as you can tell from these pictures), throwing beanbags (pretty good), guessed the number of sweets in the jar (thankfully she lost), studiously avoided the dubious looking Father Christmas (how do you explain to a child WHICH Father Christmas is the real one?), scoffed cheese and crackers (me, not Saffy), tried to suck up M&Ms with a straw (she won a consolation lollipop), decorated Christmas biscuits with too much icing and sprinkles (these have ended up lovingly hung on Aunty Divya's Christmas tree), made Christmas cards (for herself!), flirted with little Spanish boys (Aunty Debbi, not me), and spent all our pennies on Redcliffe merchandise (you all know what you're getting for Christmas). All in a day's work!