Dropping your bundle in public

I was rushing back from work the other evening to pick my children up from after school care before they had polished off the school’s entire supply of the golden syrup (no need for bread, it is just a distraction) when I had one of those moments of public horror that freeze you in time and make you - momentarily at least - want to move interstate.

I stood up to get off the bus as it approached the school, and whether it was my over-stuffed workbag bag, unaccustomed high heels, or merely the light-headedness any mother gets when she has had seven full hours of adult company without a nappy to change or the need to explain to a four-year-old where babies come from and whether it is in fact a good idea or big mistake, I was a bit unsteady on my feet.

The bus jerked to a halt and my bag went flying. Notebooks, pens, grimy stubs of lipstick, mobile phone and the forgotten debris of numerous confiscated party-bags went flying.
Lane Cove is a friendly Sydney suburb. The bus filled with a kind of well-meaning murmur of sympathy and understanding as a dozen pairs of hands reached under seats and into the aisle gathering together the scattered contents.

Then it happened. Silence. A pair of eyes met mine. I looked down to where a hand that had hovered helpfully over the last item froze mid air, then withdrew. Lying on the floor in full view of all was the head-lice comb.

Not one of those plastic, use-once-after-all-every-child-gets-the-occasional-parasite, head-lice combs. I am talking an industrial strength, heavy-duty piece of equipment, designed to tackle the kind of head-lice that has evolved complete immunity over generations of chemical warfare. I am not sure, but there may have even been the dismembered body of a lifeless louse still caught between the comb’s teeth as it lay on the floor of the 253 from the QVB.

What kind of parent needs a tool like that? What kind of mother needs to carry a lice comb with her at all times - and above all, screamed the silent crowd, which school do her children go to?

I picked up the comb. I wasn’t going to be phased by tutt-tutts of disapproval - real or imagined. I’ve read the articles, listened to the talk-back radio, and downloaded reams of comforting information from the web. It is not just my children. It is not just our school. It is not because their hair is dirty, or their parents neglectful. It is not their friends, or their friends’ families, or the fact that recent water restrictions have been a perfect excuse to avoid the inevitable struggle of hair washing nights.

I stepped off the bus, glanced sideways to the girls’ primary school, then strode with confidence in the opposite direction, through the conveniently-placed gates of a neighbouring school.
I would double back and get my girls when the bus had moved off.