The itch I can’t scratch

It’s been 16 years of near-nit experiences. Whenever I travel I pack the one essential item in the toiletries bag, alongside the tweezers. The nit comb. I almost never have nits, but always think I do because for 16 years I’ve had at least one child in the zone of maximum nit exposure. To the mothers who declare their children have never had a nit in their lives: I don’t believe you.

I was reminded of my ever-present, non-existent nit itch after doing a rainforest walk recently in the Tasmanian wilderness. It was only when we arrived that my lovely guide informed me of the leeches. Called Tiger Leeches. Because of their generous size. My guide proceeded to enthusiastically demonstrate the length but I stopped her right there. Just as I constantly think I have nits, I constantly imagined leeches crawling all over me.

Then I was told the story of the leech in the eyeball, which dropped from a fern and was only extracted by a doctor quite some distance away. Who “applied heat”. The spectacular rainforest walk usually takes a leisurely 90 minutes; we did it in a brisk 30. I foolishly wore tights under my Blundstones — perhaps it’s a city thing — but those tights were soaked in Rid. If my lower legs start blistering and flaking soon I will know why. But hey, no leeches (I have checked thoroughly). And rarely any nits. Despite being convinced there’s a nit party going on constantly above my brain.

The scourge of imaginary nits is the thanks I get for being the most mortifying mum in existence. Recently a child allowed me to attend a sporting ceremony at school. Under strict instructions: “No weird hair. No weird glasses. Don’t laugh your loud laugh.” Of course this was like a red rag to a bull and I instantly sourced my most Elton of spectacles while simultaneously digging out the hair gel. I exist to mortify them — and they exist to make me laugh. They have no idea. I turned to another child for solace. He’d just won a hairdressing voucher for $150 at a very expensive salon from the lucky dip stall at the annual school fair. Which his mum was helping out on. Would he, er, give his long-suffering mother any of his juicy winning voucher? Reluctantly, he said he’d hand over three dollars. He wants a mohawk — $150 worth of mohawk. He is seven. And it was my money in the first place.

Delicate negotiations continued as we drove home in the car, which is as filthy as my grandmother’s when she looked after various grandkids while all the parents worked. As a 10-year-old I screwed up my nose at her crumb-strewn, paper-littered car. Now that car is mine. Different model, same mess. I’ve become that woman.

Novelist Michael Chabon, father of four, was once told by a great writer not to have children because each one would represent a novel he’d never publish. But only four lost novels? More like 10 in these parts. Chabon wrote: “Children, the great man said, were notorious thieves of time… Writers needed to be irresponsible, ultimately, to everything but the writing, free of commitments to everything but the daily word count.”

I write this while attempting to finish my novel The Ripping Tree. Every January over the past few years newspapers in their roundup of what’s coming out have said this novel is indeed coming out. But then life gets in the way. Kids starting school, kids leaving school, kids’ sporting fixtures they’re secretly chuffed to see me at, kids telling me not to wear weird glasses when I need to, to see. Them, most of all. And the leech I missed that could possibly be heading to my eyeball as I type along with the itch on my scalp that’s been with me for the past 16 years, stopping all the novels I’m meant to have written in that time.