Lice Friend by Catherine Berry
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Ok, so here’s the dilemma. As a favour to a girlfriend, I looked after her daughter on the weekend. A big favour, hesitantly bestowed, given that my own husband was away for the weekend - and I had plans. Nonetheless, I offered. I always do. It makes me seem helpful, friendly, happy, positive and ‘oh so clever’ with my ability to juggle my work, home-life, children and husband – and still have time for other people. |
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Now, it wasn’t so much that she (the daughter) was a problem. Indeed, to the contrary. She was a delight. She kept my own daughter occupied, willingly brought me home-made fairy cakes and cups of squeezed lemon juice so that I could madly send off another last-minute, professional-looking report. In fact, it was better than having a regular babysitter. I didn’t have to pay her, the two girls kept their music down, had fun dressing-up, played with long-forgotten toys, tested each other on their times tables (for goodness sake!) and devised healthy, easily prepared, low-cost diets for the busy supermums that they would become.
No, the problem was that she had lice.
Now, this I wouldn’t have minded so much if I had known about it in advance. I could have requested simply, in the name of fairness, that I be provided with a hairdresser’s certificate of de-lousal with a watertight guarantee that I, and my off-spring, would not be contaminated during the period of her stay.
Instead, I was told casually WHEN MY FRIEND FINISHED HER CHILD-FREE NIGHT OF SINFUL PLEASURE, and came to pick her daughter up, that her other child had lice but she was SURE that the one who had spent the night sharing a doona and futon with my own daughter, did not.
Hmmm, was she wrong, to not tell me in advance that she suspected that she was dropping off more than one living creature to share the night and some scalp with my family?
Actually, the question is more pertinently – what do I do now? Do I confront her with my rhetorical questions, disguising the personal nature of them by beginning with “one of my friends had a nephew come to stay …”, do I say nothing whilst seething inside at the wasted time and money spent washing and delousing since, or do I subtly influence another one of my girlfriends to bring up the subject in conversation and express my point of view.
Maybe the conversation would go something like this –
Friend: “Hi, how was your day?”
Lice friend: “ Good, a bit tired after the weekend. You know how it is - after you’ve spent time away from your children, getting back into the swing of things really wears you out … (voice peters out).”
Friend: “ Hmm. I haven’t had that situation in years. I’m sure, though, that when somebody offers to look after my children for the weekend, I’ll work hard at staying children – fit. No doubt, I’ll get up early in the morning, after waking several times during the night straining to hear the sound of their breathing, put out several bowls of Weet-Bix, slosh milk over the bench just so that I can practise wiping it up, help my husband get dressed (he probably needs it anyway), then not sit down all day, even at the coffee shop that we will go to, because I might slip into some bad habits. By the way, I hear that someone in the class has lice – a letter came home yesterday.”
Lice Friend: “Yes I know. It’s absolutely rampant this year. It seems that every year it gets worse. It seems that all of my children’s friends have it. I’m not quite sure when and how it will all be brought under control.”
Friend: “Perhaps if we isolate our children when they do have it until they are treated that would help.”
Lice Friend: “Well, look, it’s a bit icky, the thought of lice, but generations lived with them quite successfully, you know, during the wars, during the famines and droughts. No water to wash them out, no chemicals to kill them. It’s not that big a deal really. But, boy, when you hear the word lice don’t you just start to feel itchy all over?”
Right, subtlety clearly was not going to work. Now, I had but two realistic options left – revenge and my husband.
I know a lot about my husband, but I don’t know a lot about revenge. Sure, I have plotted and schemed previously. Most reveries ending up with my daughter calmly, with not even a hint of malice, putting the smarmy, son-of-a-bitch bully who sits next to her at school, RIGHT back in his place … which brings me back to my husband. His solution to the bullying was to offer to teach my daughter how to plant one solidly in her antagonist’s face. I knew that he would be similarly straightforward in helping me resolve my new preoccupation. So, revenge it was. This time for real.
I bided my time. Summer came and went, the autumn chills set in but with the arrival of winter, the time was right.
Coughs, colds and worse were, as usual, abundant. I casually suggested to my daughter that it might be a lot of fun if she were to have a sleepover at lice friend’s daughter’s place.
“Seriously Mum, I mean, you don’t usually like to let me out of your sight, knowing that every other parent is much less responsible than you at looking after me,” she replied.
“Well, you are going on nine now, and I think it’s time that I introduce you to the joys of being responsibly independent.”
“Does this mean that I can—”
“So, let’s think about when.” (Silent rumination) She’s had a runny nose now for two days, her temperature is hovering around 39 degrees, her cough kept me up all last night … “What about this week-end?”
“Great, are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure that you are brewing something nasty.”
“Sorry?”
“Yes, I’m sure that is brilliant timing.”
“OK. Have you forgotten that I’m sitting my Fourth Grade Violin Theory exam on Monday?”
“Oh that. Never mind. It’s only theory. It’s much more important that you get to spread your influenza, er … influence, somewhere else. I’m sure you could take your books and study hard over there.”
It really wasn’t that mean a prank. After all, how many times has some other mother appeared grinning on my front doorstep, plate of freshly made Green’s Chocolate Muffins in one hand and runny-nosed, oozy-eyed, chest-, ear- and throat-infected child in the other, saying merrily “I just couldn’t let my little Mistress X down. She was soooo looking forward to coming and playing with your little Georgie”.
Georgie managed a Credit in her theory exam. I knew all along that I wasn’t capable of carrying out my ever-so-deviant plan. As penance for my thoughts, I spent the week-end up to my neck in modulations; minor and major, clefs; bass and treble and traumas; major and treble major from every member of my family, including me.
No, the problem was that she had lice.
Now, this I wouldn’t have minded so much if I had known about it in advance. I could have requested simply, in the name of fairness, that I be provided with a hairdresser’s certificate of de-lousal with a watertight guarantee that I, and my off-spring, would not be contaminated during the period of her stay.
Instead, I was told casually WHEN MY FRIEND FINISHED HER CHILD-FREE NIGHT OF SINFUL PLEASURE, and came to pick her daughter up, that her other child had lice but she was SURE that the one who had spent the night sharing a doona and futon with my own daughter, did not.
Hmmm, was she wrong, to not tell me in advance that she suspected that she was dropping off more than one living creature to share the night and some scalp with my family?
Actually, the question is more pertinently – what do I do now? Do I confront her with my rhetorical questions, disguising the personal nature of them by beginning with “one of my friends had a nephew come to stay …”, do I say nothing whilst seething inside at the wasted time and money spent washing and delousing since, or do I subtly influence another one of my girlfriends to bring up the subject in conversation and express my point of view.
Maybe the conversation would go something like this –
Friend: “Hi, how was your day?”
Lice friend: “ Good, a bit tired after the weekend. You know how it is - after you’ve spent time away from your children, getting back into the swing of things really wears you out … (voice peters out).”
Friend: “ Hmm. I haven’t had that situation in years. I’m sure, though, that when somebody offers to look after my children for the weekend, I’ll work hard at staying children – fit. No doubt, I’ll get up early in the morning, after waking several times during the night straining to hear the sound of their breathing, put out several bowls of Weet-Bix, slosh milk over the bench just so that I can practise wiping it up, help my husband get dressed (he probably needs it anyway), then not sit down all day, even at the coffee shop that we will go to, because I might slip into some bad habits. By the way, I hear that someone in the class has lice – a letter came home yesterday.”
Lice Friend: “Yes I know. It’s absolutely rampant this year. It seems that every year it gets worse. It seems that all of my children’s friends have it. I’m not quite sure when and how it will all be brought under control.”
Friend: “Perhaps if we isolate our children when they do have it until they are treated that would help.”
Lice Friend: “Well, look, it’s a bit icky, the thought of lice, but generations lived with them quite successfully, you know, during the wars, during the famines and droughts. No water to wash them out, no chemicals to kill them. It’s not that big a deal really. But, boy, when you hear the word lice don’t you just start to feel itchy all over?”
Right, subtlety clearly was not going to work. Now, I had but two realistic options left – revenge and my husband.
I know a lot about my husband, but I don’t know a lot about revenge. Sure, I have plotted and schemed previously. Most reveries ending up with my daughter calmly, with not even a hint of malice, putting the smarmy, son-of-a-bitch bully who sits next to her at school, RIGHT back in his place … which brings me back to my husband. His solution to the bullying was to offer to teach my daughter how to plant one solidly in her antagonist’s face. I knew that he would be similarly straightforward in helping me resolve my new preoccupation. So, revenge it was. This time for real.
I bided my time. Summer came and went, the autumn chills set in but with the arrival of winter, the time was right.
Coughs, colds and worse were, as usual, abundant. I casually suggested to my daughter that it might be a lot of fun if she were to have a sleepover at lice friend’s daughter’s place.
“Seriously Mum, I mean, you don’t usually like to let me out of your sight, knowing that every other parent is much less responsible than you at looking after me,” she replied.
“Well, you are going on nine now, and I think it’s time that I introduce you to the joys of being responsibly independent.”
“Does this mean that I can—”
“So, let’s think about when.” (Silent rumination) She’s had a runny nose now for two days, her temperature is hovering around 39 degrees, her cough kept me up all last night … “What about this week-end?”
“Great, are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure that you are brewing something nasty.”
“Sorry?”
“Yes, I’m sure that is brilliant timing.”
“OK. Have you forgotten that I’m sitting my Fourth Grade Violin Theory exam on Monday?”
“Oh that. Never mind. It’s only theory. It’s much more important that you get to spread your influenza, er … influence, somewhere else. I’m sure you could take your books and study hard over there.”
It really wasn’t that mean a prank. After all, how many times has some other mother appeared grinning on my front doorstep, plate of freshly made Green’s Chocolate Muffins in one hand and runny-nosed, oozy-eyed, chest-, ear- and throat-infected child in the other, saying merrily “I just couldn’t let my little Mistress X down. She was soooo looking forward to coming and playing with your little Georgie”.
Georgie managed a Credit in her theory exam. I knew all along that I wasn’t capable of carrying out my ever-so-deviant plan. As penance for my thoughts, I spent the week-end up to my neck in modulations; minor and major, clefs; bass and treble and traumas; major and treble major from every member of my family, including me.
