Have you heard the latest illness that could terrify a germaphobe parent like myself?
It’s that rare respiratory virus you might have read about in your Facebook feed. The one that starts like your garden variety cold, then quickly ramps up to respiratory distress and could land your child in medical care. It’s particularly threatening to children who struggle with asthma. And it’s popping up in the Midwest, including the state in which my children reside.
I hate seeing stuff like this.
Not because I empathize with the kids who are ill, but because it sets off all those bells and whistles in my head that make me want to douse our home and our children with sanitizer.
My kids do not have asthma, and they’re relatively healthy. I should have no reason to worry.
And yet, I do. I find myself flocking to those stories like a Real Housewife to an open bar.
Parenthood is already ripe for worry enough. Is my child happy? Is my child developing normally? Will my child do okay socially? Will my child be free from bullies? Will the world be a better or worse place from them a decade from now?
Will my child need therapy later from all of the stuff I bring to the table as a parent?
Slap on health scares like this, and it’s almost enough to send me over the edge.
I get it. Kids are petri dishes. This is not the first time we’ve faced weird bugs, and it certainly won’t be the last. So, I need to get over it.
I don’t know when I got all weird about illness. I think it was dormant when I was single, but now that I have children and love them to pieces, I just don’t want to see them suffer.
So, when I read news stories like this, instead of blowing stuff like this off as a “hmmm…that’s interesting,” I let tiny bubbles of panic float around in the back of my mind. Every now and then, one of those bubbles will pop, and my mind will give in to those thoughts of worry.
Like, “Is my son sniffling too much?” or “Why is she coughing all of a sudden? WHY IS SHE COUGHING?”
And then, I catch myself. I tell myself to calm down. If my kids are truly sick, my mother’s instinct will tell me. In the meantime, I need to dial back the freak factor a few notches.
I know deep down that it does no good to worry about something that is out of my control. I also know that my kids don’t need that type of phobic parent, and I don’t want them to become germaphobes either.
All I can do is encourage my kids to wash their hands regularly and hope that all of the surfaces they’ve ever licked has helped to build a healthy immune system.
And perhaps I should disable my news notifications.
After I wipe down my phone, of course.
We generally don’t make too much of a fuss about our anniversary. Gifts are usually small if any at all, there are cards exchanged, and we might make it to dinner by ourselves. Jon doesn’t quite know it yet, but I have big plans for our 10th. It involves shipping the kids off, escaping to a tropical paradise, and being hand fed peeled grapes and fruity drinks by cabana boys. And Jon can come too if he wants.
