Oh, last week was a winner. The husband and the child were both battling an awful cold (that I’m enjoying right now). Then she developed pink eye (which means a trip to the doctor and seven days of eye drops three times a day). The child hates eye drops. Seriously. She reacts to these eye drops as if I was dripping hot lava into her face. Anyway, on with the whining: My work is winding up from frantic to brain-splitting and the dog is showing her displeasure with our frequent lateness by pulling over every trash can she can reach. Every day.
So, on top of all that, I get an email from someone (who shall remain nameless to protect the innocent) to tell me that my child has given her pinworms. “My doctor says that adults don’t get pinworms,” said this person, “unless it comes from a small child with dubious potty skills.” Several thoughts hit me at once.
- My child has worms. Ick.
- My child is actively passing on said worms to other people. Crap.
- Dubious potty skills?
- What am I going to tell the day care ladies. Crap, crap, crap.
Of course, it was crap that had gotten us into this situation to start with.
I Google “pinworms.” Well, it’s not exactly rare … easy to fix … very, very, very contagious. Once one person in the family has this, the whole family just automatically gets treated.
I’ll have to tell the day care ladies. No. Wait. I really don’t want to ‘fess up to this. Let’s check the child first.
The Internet told me what to look for: Itching, little worms on the tiny heiny at night, a “scotch tape” test.
The little worms only come out a night, so you are supposed to wait until the child is asleep, yank off the underwear, shine a flashlight the exposed skin and look for something about the size and color of ... ummm ... lint.
The first couple of yanking-and-flashlight episodes were fraught with some difficulty. The child woke up, grabbed her underwear, and yelled in her little girl voice, “Mommy! What are you doing?”
“Ummm … nothing.” I stood there, trying to look innocent with a big flashlight in my hand.
“Well, stop it.”
The next time, I had to actually explain what I was doing. She was tired of the late-night hijinks so she just grunted, rolled over, stuck her butt in the air, and went back to sleep.
There was nothing. No lint, no redness. I didn’t go as far as the scotch tape test (you can look it up yourself), but I did check with the pediatrician.
“Anything with you or your husband?”
“You didn’t see anything?”
“You can bring her in if you want, but it’s very unlikely that she has them. If you start to see her scratching, then bring her right in and we’ll take care of it.”
Whew. No. I never did tell the day care ladies … nor do I ever plan to.
And my daughter is going to get very good at washing her hands from now on.