As a kid, I rarely got sick during the summertime. I got
sick plenty, but usually just during the winter months, like normal people do.
Apparently having small children means you are no longer a normal person (newsflash).I have already been sick four times this year – twice in the past three weeks – and currently Hannah, Abram and I all have a cold. At least we’re a family who shares.
Since my kids stay at home with me most of the time, it
almost seems as though they get sick every time we leave the house. I know that
can’t be true – otherwise it would mean we really need to get out of the house
more – but it feels that way, and it drives me completely BONKERS. I need to escape these four walls as often
as I can, but is it really worth it when I end up spending the next couple of
weeks stuck at home, trying to get everybody well again?
Each week the library has a ‘Babytime’ session with stories
and songs, and occasionally we venture out to partake in this exciting activity
(sarcasm intended). Every parent knows that getting around so many other children
is like swimming in a cesspool of super germs, but we do it for the sake of
fun. (Or some semblance of fun, which generally means you hope it’s going to be
fun, but it just ends up being more trouble than it’s worth.)
At least the kids get a kick out of it, but the question
that plagues me (pun intended) every time we go is are we going to win the germ lottery this week?
 |
| Everything goes in the mouth |
In a perfect world Abram would never lay a hand (or tongue) on those icky maracas. Like a true germaphobe, I stay put while the kids line up for them.
But inevitably, without fail, every single week one of
the other parents/grandparents decides that my little boy is so adorable that
he simply must receive a pair of
maracas.
“Here you go,” they say cheerfully as they hand me the dreaded
orange-and-yellow wands of disease. “For the baby.” Then they beam as though
they’ve just handed us 3-day passes to SeaWorld.
“Thanks,” I say reluctantly as I accept the infected gifts.
I could deny them, but then I risk offending the kind gift-giver and becoming
known as the mean mom who won’t let her poor little baby have some innocent fun
shaking maracas.
It’s not innocent, people. So not innocent.
I give in and let Abram hold them. Then I spend the next few
minutes helping him shake them along to the music while his little mouth tries
to attack them like a zombie after some brains. I die a little inside and wish
it was socially acceptable to bring a bottle of Listerine to Babytime for toy decontamination.
Then we go home, and I nervously await the verdict as I
watch for symptoms over the next couple of days. I always breathe a sigh of
relief when it appears that we are in the clear and have actually avoided
bringing home an epidemic.
Then we go to the store, and he tries to eat the shopping
cart. I give up.
