As I settle here to write about my weekend, what I notice is this: My long hair is lank and whiffy with oil and vinegar after treating myself for nits.
This not the sort of thing I would normally bring to the notice of the world. This mundane, less than attractive, my-life-is-not-magazine-worthy-detail is what I notice.
Nits. I can’t stand them. Where I live nits are rife. People resort to putting poison on their children’s heads to kill them. (Nits or the children? I am not sure what that poison kills).
But the reason I have nits is that my girls still love to curl up with me, head to head, on the couch, in bed. I have them because their friends from school cuddle me when I arrive to do art or storytelling with them. I have them because I am held with love by nitty kids. Those crawly little bloodsuckers are a side effect of love.
I don’t want to sound like Polly-Anna – I feel revolted by the livestock on my head. Nits aren’t on my list of “things that will be happening in my life that will let me know I am magnificent”.
But nits have come because I am loved, and so those revolting little itch makers are messengers of the true magnificence of my life.
Jane Cunningham is a storyteller, mother, slattern and artist. She lovingly retells your story at www.reframingyourstory.com, has an artgallery/blog/learningsite at www.seedsofthenuminous.com and is here on facebook and @faerian on twitter