Anyone who has worked in a pre-school, or any other environment crawling with little ones, can tell you that kids are full-time germ factories. The older and bigger ones apparently aren’t much better in that regard: this past weekend, Dove and Bear showed up coughing, sniffling, and delightfully casting germs about like diseased fairy dust, and my frantic dousing, wiping, and scrubbing of every surface with disinfectant turned out to be futile.
You guessed it, I caught whatever plague-bomb they brought into our home. I’ve joked that the kids are carrier monkeys, and it’s true. Whatever they show up with, whether it’s a sore throat, a cough, a runny nose, a rash, you name it, I may as well consider it my inevitable destiny within 24 hours.
I’m a bit irritated about this, to be honest. Not so much at the kids, because they are kids, and hey, they were sick already, which isn’t fun. It may sound like a cheap shot to blame Crow, but the kids have told me enough (and hell, Gary was married to the slob) for me to know that if cleanliness is next to Godliness, then Crow needs to call God long-distance.
Hand washing? What’s that? Something we have to remind the kids to do, like teeth brushing, hair combing, and trimming fingernails and toenails before they resemble talons of birds of flight. Maybe it’s just my fever-ravaged brain talking, but it seems to me that a little hygiene would go a long way in reducing how many microbes, pathogens, and illnesses get smuggled into our home and passed along, inevitably, to me.
I suppose I could look at it as a little something the kids left for me to remember them by. If that’s the case, I would strongly prefer flowers next time. Or at least not the flu.