I’m sick. Well, I think I’m sick. But I’m not really sure. I’m not 100%, but I’m well enough to carry out the standard daily duties of my life. And come to think of it, it’s been this way for a while. In fact, about five years—about the same time the first little one popped out. Coincidence? Nah.
Kids, while funny and cute, are little germ missiles. They soak up just about every bug, virus, bacterium, microbe and pathogen. It probably has something to do with face-down tantrums in Wal-Mart or trying pre-chewed gum on the public trash can. Maybe it’s “washing their hands” by turning on the faucet for 10 seconds and then screaming, “done!” without ever getting wet. Either way, there’s no safeguarding these gremlins, and us parents get to enjoy the fruits and coughs of their labor.
Last week, I had some indistinguishable eye infection courtesy of my 3-year-old. My peepers were crustier than saltines and I was actually producing some kind of white discharge out of my tear ducts. The cherry on this conjunctivitis sundae was the bloodshot eyes that looked like I was crying or awake (or both) for two days straight.
Adults shouldn’t contract these illnesses. We have mature immune systems, capable of facing off against the toughest of foes (f*&% you, COVID). Then boom, you have a kid and now you’re struggling with something called “hand, foot and mouth” disease. Yeah, it’s real, and WebMD claims you can grab this sucker when touching feces. Normal humans don’t encounter this situation, but every parent is now thinking about their first blowout experience (poop somehow travels through the rear of the diaper and up the back of the child; extra points for somehow finding it on the outside of the clothes). So, yeah, it’s all fair game for even the most rare of bugs.
And the worst part is how hard it hits us compared to kids. They’re doing backflips off the couch 24 hours later, but we get knocked down like going six rounds with Tyson. I remember only getting sick maybe once or twice a year in my early adulthood, even bragging to friends and family about my well-protected immune system. Now my nose is constantly stuffy, I hack up a lung each morning, and I’m exhausted every day by six o’clock. And then you learn to just live with it. Like being hungover every day without the fun from the night before. But you’re still forced to wake up at an ungodly hour to the Bluey theme song, do literally everything for them, and have zero time for relaxation. Ah, to be parents!
So the big question—when does it end? Do they just wake up one day and decide to shower on a frequent basis? Stop using the couch as a napkin? Not trying to fit a dollar’s worth of pennies in their mouth? At least now, my kids are germy and cute. In a decade, they’ll be germy and teenagers. Yuck.
For now, I’m the guy at CVS with a mile-long receipt, multipack of COVID tests, children’s grape Tylenol, and three gallons of chocolate chip ice cream (bribery for the nasal swaps and medicine). I also feel shitty, but I’m definitely not the priority, so I’ll chug some NyQuil on the side. I gave my kids way too much blonde hair. They keep giving me the next trendy rhinovirus that’s all the rage. Bottom’s up!