germsgergermsI give.
I’m waving the white flag. I’m throwing antiques out of burning buildings. I’m praying to tiny vials of penicillin.
“Wait ’til you see the germs they pick up in kindergarten,” they said.
“I know germs,” I told them loftily.
I’ve nannied. Had children. Sent them to preschool. Watched them put that door handle in their mouths- stop putting that door in your mouths, you guys.
But “they” were right. Colds, viruses, flus, streps (yes, multiple streps) rage through the classroom and rage through our home and rage through- well, my rage.
But no more. I’ve been projectile-vomited on in a mall bathroom for the very last time. Here’s my new plan: I’ll take every fabric-covered thing in our home, pile them in the laundry, and spray bleach on them with an industrial-sized hose. See, germs? There’s no need to prove a point ’round here, I’m already crying and scrubbing my hands like Lady MacBeth! You win! I lose! I am such a loser, germs!
“Pixie dust? Nah, I’m about to spray you with fever-inducing fruit chunks.”
(And I swear to God, if one more person reminds me the importance of “washing our hands really, really well” I promise I will stab them in the eye with a strep test swab. Because what the hell do they think I’m doing? “Lick ’em clean, kids, just the way Mama taught you!”)
Yours in bacterial benevolence (and borderline berserkitude),
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