Having a child with health problems, a child who almost died from a bacterial infection, has made me quite the germophobe. I am constantly washing my hands and have little bottles of anti-bacterial gel in every bag or purse I own. Not too long ago, I even pulled out some gel at church and used it after my son had shaken the hands of fifteen different people during the sign of peace. No offense folks, but I don’t know where you’ve been. My husband was so embarrassed that he gave me a bogus grin, then I heard him mumble under his breath, “I didn’t sign up for this”.

My children are ordered to wash their hands IMMEDIATELY upon entering the house after school, and I NEVER let them use a drinking fountain. When we enter a public restroom, my son is told to keep his hands on his belly and not touch anything. Preferably, he just uses the potty I always keep in the car, which I have lined with kitty litter bags. It has kept him off many a public toilet seat.

I have taught my daughter to push elevator buttons with her elbow, and how to open a restroom door with a paper towel, then shoot it across the room into the trash. It’s like basketball camp, only without the basketball, court, or scoreboard.

The grocery store we go to has recently put out disinfecting cloths so we can wipe down the cart before my son’s hands touch it. No one can detail a shopping cart quite like me. Those little car-carts are always so sparkling and clean that people are probably expecting me to tap on some custom rims and add hydraulics. My son could run into his friends and hear them exclaim, “Dude! Sweet ride!”

But, despite my efforts, my kids still get sick. I hear it’s good for them to get sick once in awhile, because they’ll be stronger for it when they’re older. Well, good! Because, if that’s the case, my son will be the picture of perfect health when he’s an adult. Then he can shake all the hands he wants.

Labels: Kids