Monkey mother

As a Southern Hempisphere mother I become bery, bery happy in February; the weather is hot, the days are long and the kids are finally back at school after the endless summer holidays. To add to my excitement on the second Friday of the first term my kids came home from school and started scratching like mossie infested marmosets as they put down their school bags.

One sentence from my baby girl,

“Mum my head’s itchy, the teacher said it was headlice season,” had me reaching for my merlot medication hours earlier than usual. FORK! ‘ucken bloody head lice. Tis the season to be scratching and self medicating through the long lonely hours of picking. That night, like the model chimpanzee mother that I am, I stood over my children and combed and scratched and grabbed the critters with my pincer-like fingers.  I was so happy to give up a social engagement with a bunch of fabulous old friends so my munchkins could be egg free by Sunday night. As I toiled, I sang my favourite Dusty Springfield song, ‘Wishin’ an’ pickin’ an’ sprayin’ an’ hopin’ that they’re gone’.

I must have picked out around a gazillion of the little creatures. It was tiring, and I sacrificed a lot, but I am so proud that I achieved a personal best – highest overall headlice count in 15 years of mothering three daughters with long hair. I am on fire. And it’s only the second month of the year. I had to drink a long neck of VB to celebrate.