My partner, Alex, has a tendency to overreact about health issues. This year alone, they’ve convinced themselves they’ve suffered from everything from a sprained ankle to chronic fatigue syndrome. If you were to suggest they might be a hypochondriac, Alex would vehemently disagree. But after just five minutes on WebMD, they’d probably exclaim, “Oh no, that’s me!”
Alongside their health concerns, Alex has a serious aversion to bed bugs. In their mind, these tiny pests are like mythical creatures: elusive, capable of surviving without food for years, and somehow responsible for a significant portion of the world’s problems.
This paranoia about pests and an inclination toward anxiety are a combustible mix. Despite our generally tidy home, Alex has accused us of harboring bed bugs at least five times, usually late at night, while pleading with me to help inspect the mattress for any signs. We’ve never had bed bugs, but we were blissfully unaware that lice were about to invade our lives—right before Christmas.
Day 0 (6 days until Christmas)
After returning from a family movie night, we engage in our customary routine: everyone undresses in the laundry room, tossing clothes into the dryer to prevent bed bug infestations. It sounds extreme, but it’s become second nature. Little did we know that our firstborn had unwittingly brought home a different type of pest.
Day 1 (5 days until Christmas)
It’s family game night when our seven-year-old, Mia, mentions that her scalp itches. Alex swiftly inspects her hair under a bright light, mimicking a medical examination. “I’ve found something!” they declare. I stay calm, convinced this is just another false alarm, akin to the boy who cried wolf.
However, as I examine Mia’s golden locks, I spot a tiny bug darting among the strands. I glance at Alex, who is now in full panic mode. Mia is crushed; I pull her into a comforting hug while Alex shoots me a look that clearly says, “Step away!”
Moments later, Alex rushes to the pharmacy, likely purchasing enough lice treatment to raise eyebrows. I ponder whether they might just take a train to Idaho to start a society free of hair. The evening spirals into a whirlwind of cleaning and anxiety, despite having found only three bugs.
Day 2 (4 days until Christmas)
Our living room resembles a war zone post-battle. Blankets cover the furniture, and steam rises as we disinfect lice combs. Empty wine bottles clutter the counter. Alex listens to holiday music with a somber expression, reminiscent of someone on death row reflecting on better days.
Even though we haven’t spotted any more lice since the initial finding, the fear of their presence looms like an unwelcome shadow. We worry about our planned Christmas gathering with Alex’s family, who are likely avoiding us like the plague.
Day 3 (3 days until Christmas)
Alex has a nightmare about lice crawling over them, while I dream of bizarre solutions, like putting the kids in the dryer for a quick fix. Then, I learn about an electric comb that detects and eliminates lice—an invention straight from a science fiction tale.
At Walgreens, I buy a selection of beer, noting how the elderly gentleman in front of me jokingly wishes to come over. I fantasize about brandishing the $50 lice treatment to illustrate our plight.
Day 4 (2 days until Christmas)
I dream of the Elf on the Shelf sporting a disgusted expression, sporting a turquoise cap to contain the lice outbreak. Alex insists we meditate, but chaos soon ensues when Mia cries that her brother shot her with a Nerf gun.
In a bid to salvage some joy, Alex prepares whimsical snacks but I can’t help but wonder if they’ve lost touch with reality—could they be developing Stockholm syndrome towards our tiny captors?
Day 5 (Christmas Eve)
We remain vigilant for nits—lice eggs that could hatch in a week. I joke that “nits are the original Hatchimals,” but Alex isn’t amused. Our children voice their concerns about Santa and Christmas plans, leading us to tentatively reach out to family, who respond cautiously.
Day 6 (Christmas)
Santa arrives, presumably in a hazmat suit. We maintain a cautious distance from family, resorting to fist bumps instead of hugs. Despite the chaos of lice elimination, the spirit of the season still unites us.
In the end, while we may face uncertainty about nits and whether another bug lurks, we’re certain we can navigate this challenge together. I jokingly dump pepper on my head to elicit a reaction from Alex, who is less than amused. My son and I share a fist bump, finding humor amidst the stress.
In summary, this chaotic journey through lice infestation just before Christmas highlights the resilience of family bonds. As we navigate the discomfort and uncertainty together, it serves as a reminder that even the most unexpected challenges can strengthen our connections.
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