"Emma. Would you come in here a minute please?" My husband has used his posh voice. He's referred to me by my actual name. Sh*t. Somethings wrong with the kids. It's going to be f*cking chicken pox. I mentally locate where I put the calamine lotion (oh yes that's right. It's still in the shop) as I run to the bathroom.
No pox on show. Result! Husband is looking terrified. Daughter bemused. He mouths "nits". My son tips water over my top as I look on in terror.
"That's not nits". I think to myself. "It's just a bit of dirt"! The dirt moves. I let out a small yelp. Reverse three steps into the hall. Mouth "F*CK" to my husband. And try not to projectile vomit.
Pre discovery. They are waiting. Sly sods
Sh*t. Right. Nits. OK. Nits. Nothing to worry about. It's only SMALL TINY BUGS LIVING ON MY ACTUAL DAUGHTER. I'm going to kill these nits so hard. They aren't going to know what's nit them. I mean hit them. F*ck you nits! This is war. My son tips water on the floor.
Except. I don't know how to kill nits. I need a comb. Or something? Every drawer in the house is emptied in the vain hope that at some point someone other than me brought a nit comb. I find nothing. I google 'how to kill nits in the most aggressive way without hurting my child'. My son tips water over his sister.
"Daddy do you want to pop to the shop to get that stuff for you know what?" "For the nits?" My daughter looks up from the bath wondering why the hell my voice is so high and squeaky. "No... For the...
...DoodleBugs (!?)". Yep. I've gone down the route of lying. I continue the lie by telling my small child that the nits are in fact little creatures that like parties in hair. Called DoodleBugs. They go to clean hair and live there as clean hair throws the best kind of DoodleBug parties. She's honoured. She's happy. She loves her DoodleBugs. My son wishes he has DoodleBugs. He sadly tips water over his own head.
F*ck. I forgot I now have to systematically kill every one of her beloved DoodleBugs. In front of her face. With the DoodleBug lotion which makes them "sleepy and in no way shape or form dead". She's happy as some are sleeping on her leg. I try not to vomit. Again.
Hair is stripped. Kids in bed. Pillows are stripped. If I could shave the dog I would. Brushes are thrown away. Every part of me itches. I spend the evening wondering how to ensure my girl doesn't try and catch DoodleBugs again. And what they hell she is going to tell the teacher at preschool tomorrow. I dream of nits in my own hair. And look suspiciously at my husbands.