Before I had a kid, I thought parents who got sick from their small children were stupid.
I mean how hard is it to freaking wash your hands after you deal with your kid? (I’m pretty sure that this sentence should come with a laugh track.)
What I didn’t know was the intimacy and frequency with which you deal with your child. Between the never ending nose wipes, changing diapers and clothes, and eating; the primary care-giver, unless he or she is unusually resistant to cold germs, is going to get sick. Also, the level at which you are smug about not catching said cold germ also greatly affects the probability that you will catch it 24 hours after your kid is well.
That was me this weekend. Eli was sick. We realized it as soon as he got up Saturday morning. We had the discussion over breakfast that we shouldn’t be going to church on Sunday because he’d just infect everyone else. Luckily, it wasn’t a long-lasting cold. By Monday morning, he seemed to have made a decent recovery, so we ran some errands. I congratulated myself on not contracting this particular cold germ because I seem to have caught every other one Eli had this past winter or if not every other one, then at least two out of three.
Last night before I went to bed I felt the scratchy throat. I popped an airborne. This morning I had odd fever dreams about paying taxes on my car in Arkansas but without any checks in my check book and about Stephen catching a rattlesnake with his bare hands. At breakfast, I took another airborne. I may have to run out to the store sometime today for more airborne cause I’m pretty sure I’m going to take all I have today to ward off this crud.
I guess the moral of this story is never make fun of the common cold because it knows where you live. Ok, maybe that’s not actually the moral but somehow that’s funnier to me right now than laughing at myself for being stupid.