"Welcome home, mummy!" said the lice.

Another day in the car; 9 plus hours driving from Sydney to Melbourne.

T’was lovely to be able to do this without having to stop for more than a coffee and a quick wee, nor to have to turn around and say “do you want me to pull over and leave you here?!” every seventeen minutes or find a safe spot to pull over for a piddle because they didn’t need to go while we were actually passing through a town, but were suddenly busting just as we hit the 110 kmph zone just past it.

T’was lovely to have Chippie running up the hall and out the door, yelling “Mummy, mummy! Is mummy!” when we pulled up out the front, to have Monkey Boy rifling through the goody bags as we’re trying to unload them onto the nature strip, and Godzilla rummaging through whatever leftover snacks there were from the drive and spitting them at me as he said “oh, hi”.

I was allowed inside, gave a kiss to Grumpy pants, and was immediately thrust back into Normality.

Dinner, complaints, standing on toys and bath time, at which point Chippie says “mine head hurt”; it could be a bump, or it could be he is coming down with a virus, given both Grumpy Pants and Monkey Boy have recently had one.

Or … NOOOOOOOOOOO … “nits” I think as Chippie walks ahead of me, scratching his head profusely and saying “mine head itchy”.

I strip him off, plonk him in the bath, smother his head with cheapo conditioner and begin combing.

Oh, yeah. An infestation. Fun.

I continue combing, add some treatment, and yell at Monkey Boy for the 804th time to come and get in the frigging bath so I can check his hair too. I hate checking his hair. It is now to his shoulder blades and curly. Which generally equals some version of knotty. Urk.

And he whinges a lot.

He, too, is infected. I add treatment to his hair whilst, yet again, request he stop bitching at me about the lice issue as I am not fucking God and I, too, am pissed off about the entire situation and him bitching and complaining and saying I’m hurting is not helping me feel any better about it.

Grumpy is seconded to the shower to wash Chippie’s treatment out and I am subsequently seconded to the bathroom to remove him safely from the shower, now containing Grumpy, Monkey Boy and Chippie.

I open the door and hold his hand to help him step out.

At this point, Monkey Boy and Grumpy Pants bickering at each other, Grumpy inexplicably turns the shower head (quite possibly to shut Monkey Boy up) and I am hit, full force in the right tit with a shower-spray of water.

I scream! One of those really girly, surprised screams.

This does little in relation to having the spray turned away from me, or, I dunno, the glass shower door shut, maybe?

So I scream again. Grumpy laughs, and Chippie says “You wet your pa-ants!”

I spend the hour I’d like to be in bed reading combing Monkey Boy’s hair, small segment by small segment … and dream of when my next break will be …

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