My two-year-old son has fleas. Or, at least, he did until very recently. I think they’re gone now. I mean, I really hope they’re gone, although it’s difficult to tell. Fleas are tiny. And jump around a lot. Perhaps you already knew this – perhaps you’re an expert on fleas – but for me, the past few weeks have been a real learning curve. One night you put your child to bed with legs as smooth and blemish-free as organic chicken fillets, then the next morning they’re covered in red sores and he’s scratching himself like he’s coming off heroin. Which he’s not. Because he’s two.
Of course, in this situation, you don’t think “fleas”. You don’t allow yourself to consider it. This is not the 16th century. My house is not made of dirt. My house is nice! I have central heating I can control with my smartphone. I have a Bluetooth stereo. I do not have fleas. Only, after three inconclusive visits to the GP, plus two late-night trips to paediatric A&E, a pest control guy finally comes round for a look and within 30 seconds a small insect jumps on him. “That was a flea!” he says, sounding delighted. “You’ve got fleas.” And just like that, your world collapses around you. Fleas. Gorging themselves on your child. In 2017.
Anyway, it’s horrible, shameful, proper Old Testament stuff. But at the same time, I feel compelled to speak out. Because if the same thing happens to you, it’s important to know what lies ahead. So here are my lessons, hard learnt. It’s the least I can do.
There will be blame. Specifically towards any family pets. In our case this was Hank, our cat. Only, something in his eyes seemed to say, “Yes, OK, but Ben slacked off with that monthly flea treatment he was supposed to give me, didn’t he?” – at which point the blame spread to me a bit, too. So I’d spend long evenings alone with Hank, attempting to retroactively comb him with a nit brush over and over again until he was basically just a cat skeleton on my lap. Dark times.
There will be judgment. I took my son to a playground and the still slightly scabby marks on his legs were visible. “Chickenpox?” asked one mum, pulling that knowing, sympathetic, we’re-all-in-this-together face parents give one another. “Funny story!” I said, looking at my son as he span on the roundabout. “He actually had fleas.” At which point I looked up to find she and her children were 400 yards away.
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You will develop feelings for the exterminator. He doesn’t judge you at all. In fact, he’s excited. It’s his time to shine. He made us all leave the house for hours while he went on his flea murder spree. When we finally came back, I nervously opened the door to see him sipping a cup of tea, a man alone amid the fug of chemical fumes. “You are safe now,” his body language seemed to say. “They will harm you no more.” I think his name is John. I love him.
You’ll also get quite ripped. A combination of not eating due to sheer stress plus having to beat out heavy rugs on a daily basis means I’m in the shape of my life. Every cloud, I guess.
Delete your internet search history. Just for your own sake. Because it’s only going to be endless hi-res photographs of festering skin conditions, plus a series of increasingly desperate Google search terms: “What is a flea?”; “What have I done to deserve fleas?”; “Are there any voodoo rituals to get rid of fleas?”; “How easy is it to burn down my house and claim the insurance without getting found out?” Stuff like that. Best to wipe it.
Paranoia will set in. Fleas, in your peripheral vision, constantly. Look, there! Oh, it’s only a crumb of burnt toast. There! Ah, no, sorry, it’s just our one-year-old daughter. Do you feel itchy? I feel itchy. I know they’re here. Everywhere. Waiting. Watching. Shall we vacuum the entire house again for the third time today? Yes. Yes, let’s. Although *whispers* I think the Henry Hoover’s on their side. Look at him. The fleas have turned him. I can feel it.
Your house will be as clean as it’s ever been. I mean, late-life Howard Hughes clean. Everything you can physically wash, you wash. And wash again. And then put in bin bags and douse with antibacterial spray. At 2.30am, after 18 hours of this, it will occur to you that you’re more than capable of covering up a murder.
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There will be twists and turns. It turns out it wasn’t Hank! He was totally innocent! Or at least, there was enough reasonable doubt. The exterminator – having done some proper CSI stuff – concluded it was probably bird fleas. Bird fleas! From pigeons in our chimney! They’d infiltrate my son’s room through an air vent and then have their way with him every night. Chilling stuff. It was like Dracula had been reimagined by Bill Oddie. Anyway, they’re all dead now. And Hank – good old Hank – is back in the bosom of the family. I rewarded him with some of that fancy cat food. If he manages to kill some pigeons, he can have whatever he wants.