Monday Musings.

Did you ever stop to think how gross the food and drink is at a movie theater? I don't mean that nachos are gonna clog your arteries, or popcorn is soaked in artificial butter. What I mean is how germy it is.

The person behind the counter takes your bag in one hand and a scoop in the other, and runs it clean through the popcorn to scoop it up, while the rest of the popcorn slides over their hand and arm. Repeatedly. Watch them next time--you'll see how their entire hand and arm come into direct contact with the popcorn. Trust me; you'll see.

Remember, they've been handling money and God knows what else.

And they usually lay your popcorn bucket right in the mass of popcorn. Think of what this means if someone's popcorn is a refill--a stranger has been pawing through that bucket with greasy, saliva-tainted, unwashed fingers, filling their popcorn bucket with germs, usually placing their bucket on the FLOOR of the theater in between munchings, and now that bucket is lying right the fuck in the popcorn machine.

Then, when the popcorn scooper is done, they just drop the popcorn scoop (that they've been handling with their bare hands) right there in the popcorn.

And the soda pop--the ice they use is just a hotcoldbed of disease. The ice sits there in a wide-open container right under the soda nozzles, collecting dust and sneezes alike. Then they scoop it, in a manner not unlike the scoopage of popcorn, and contact with their hand is likely. Then they drop the scoop into the ice. They also tend to shove the whole scoop in your pop cup when filling it. This is particularly bad when you again consider refills.

We were at the theater on New Year's Eve, and after the movie, my husband went for his refill of Coke Zero. The cashier concessionaire ladyperson scooped the ice, then shoved the entire scoop down into his cup--the cup he'd been drinking from and backwashing in. The scoop easily came into direct contact with his saliva. And therefore thousands of other people's saliva. I had to look away and say a prayer to the Patron Saint of Spit to get through it.

So the next time you are at the theater, pay special attention to the popcorn scoopage and the soft drink makeage. You'll never look at it the same way again.

Weekend Update

Thanksgiving was nice. We skipped the usual plan (going to my aunt & uncle's house with all the extended family) because they had been sick recently, and we spent the day with my brother and his wife, and my mom and grandma, instead. I'm so glad we did, because everyone who attended Thanksgiving at my aunt's house came down with a terrible stomach flu. Yaaaay turkey and vomit. SO glad we missed that one. But it makes me crazy how that side of the family is ALWAYS sick on holidays and other get-togethers.

----

So I've started seeing another psychiatrist. You may recall that my first endeavor didn't go so well--at first I liked him, but then he started rubbing me the wrong way, and when he blamed me for going "quite a long time over our time limit" when in reality his previous client had actually gone 30 minutes too long and he and I were only 5 minutes past the hour, I started questioning my relationship with him. Pus, he wasn't covered by insurance. Oops, forgot to check that one. So I stopped seeing him and just started seeing my regular family practitioner, since all we were doing was managing meds, not having talk-therapy. Finally, this became a little too much for my regular doc, and she cried uncle, and nothing was working even though I was on like 8 different meds, so I started seeing a different in-network psychiatrist. So far so good, even though we're only two sessions in.

He's a slight-framed Indian lad who I'll call Dr. P.

Dr. P has a subtle willowy barely-there lisp, but it makes him all the more endearing. It makes him sound gentle. Our first session was good--he asked about a zillion questions, some of which were incredibly hard to answer (have you ever had suicidal thoughts, have you ever harmed yourself, etc.). But I think it went well. Today, our session was a little tougher, as he doesn't specialize in "cognitive behavior therapy" (CBD) related to my OCD, so besides the usual "how're yer meds doin" chat, we couldn't talk about that much. But it was still good. He is changing up my meds, adding this, subtracting this, and he really wants me to see a therapist specializing in CBD/OCD.

Anyway, I'll be seeing him for awhile, and since you, my fans, are all hanging on to my every word I say, I will let you know if his cocktail of meds works. So far, the one I've been on for months & months now has had exactly NO effect whatsoever. And I'm on some hardcore shit. Again, my body betrays me. Nothing works on me like it does for the typical person. (Hence my SEVEN OR EIGHT MILLIGRAM DOSE (that's 7-8 tablets, kids) OF KLONOPIN, which still amounted to nothing, and a blood test confirmed that it's barely even in my system.) Sigh.

----

11/28/11: I've got to confess, I'm sitting here having an actual cocktail, not just a medicinal cocktail, even though I'm on SSRIs 'n "DO NOT MIX WITH ALCOHOL"s 'n shit, because that's just how I roll. Danger is my middle name. Or Al Coholic. Whatever. I'm drinking it from my one and only martini glass, which always makes me happy. Wouldn't this glass make you happy?

And as I typed this, sitting here sipping my Sidecar, my 4-year-old came over and demanded a taste. When she asks for a taste of my wine, I dip a pinkie finger in it and let her lick it off (yay for defying hygiene!), so I did the same with my Sidecar. I said, "It probably tastes a little strong for you, Love," at which point she declared, "I LOVE SIDECARS!!" and wanted another pinkie-taste. MOTHER OF THE FUCKING YEAR OVER HYAR.

Can I get a what what!

----

Continued 11/29/11: I had to take Naomi to the doctor today. You know it's bad when I resort to that, since the pediatrician's office is what my nightmares are made of. I sit there in the doctor's office and pray to the Patron Saint of Rugrats that none of the other kids breathe in our direction. Anyway, we were there because the "simple" cold we all caught hit Naomi so hard (hit us hard too, but it affected the baby the worst). We were at the pediatrician's office a couple weeks ago too. This cold has lasted for four weeks as of tomorrow, and it went from a wretchedly bad cough and horrific congestion to a sinus infection and now, from today's diagnosis, a double ear infection. My poor baby. And she's always in such a good mood, even when she has to be miserable. Her whole head must hurt, and she's still coughing all the time and super snotty and phlegmy. This is exactly why I feared her getting sick. This cold didn't teach me "ahh, colds aren't that bad," it reinforced how scary they can be, having to worry constantly about her breathing during the night, etc. So now if anything I'm even more scared of the common cold. This has been a horrible month, and she still has a long way to go. Probably another couple weeks until she's better. So this "cold" and all its complications will have lasted SIX WEEKS. That is hell on a baby and her parents. So sad. So miserable.

Anyway, that's all I got for you. I've been losing my blogging mojo lately. Boo!

Mom of the Year.

Can I just tell you all what a terrible mother I am?

Here's why.

When my older kid gets sick, I don't immediately feel the urge to rush to her and smother her with hugs and kisses and soup and honey; I feel like backing away slowly and making the sign of the cross and saying a prayer to the Patron Saint of Boogers that I don't get what she has. I don't want to cuddle her on the couch; I want her--or rather, what she has--to stay far far away. When she's sick, I feel almost like she's poison. That's why I am a terrible, terrible mother. When she's sick, I feel like my oldest child is poison.

I get so terribly afraid that she will make me sick, but only because if she makes me sick, I will make the baby sick. It's not really about me, it's about the baby. I don't really care if I get sick, even though ever since I broke my nose* in 2004 the slightest stuffy nose hits me HARD. But it's all about the baby Naomi. I'm so worried that she will get sick and, worst case scenario, stop breathing or that she will get sick and, best case scenario, have a terribly difficult week, that when Maya gets sick, I panic. I worry that she will infect the entire family, one by one, zombie like.

* A long, sordid tale, too complicated for this blog.

Just writing these words makes me know how awful I am, makes me believe it. I don't need anyone else to confirm it, I already know it. I mean, what kind of person thinks their poor sick firstborn is poisonous? Who doesn't feel that motherly urge to cuddle her sweet sick baby? I know I used to feel it, I know it for sure. I used to feel that motherly urge, and now I don't. Now I'm afraid of my own kid when she gets sick.

I'll tell you a tale, a tale of pre-all-OCD*-Jo.

* It just so happens that your friend here used to be only mostly OCD. There's a big difference between mostly OCD and all OCD.

I remember specifically, when Maya was just over a year old, she got very sick with Roseola. She had a high fever and was just about to break out in spots, and she was miserable. Now, Maya was not a cuddly child, not by any stretch of the imagination. She would not give in to hugs or kisses, would not cuddle us at all. AT ALL. So when she was horribly sick with a 105-degree fever and wanted nothing else but to lounge in my arms for hours, poor sickly thing, I lapped it up. I was sad for her and scared for her, but loved the cuddle time. Perhaps because I didn't have a younger baby in the house to worry about. Or else my disorder just hadn't peaked yet. All I know is I cuddled that cuddlebug like there was no tomorrow. 

Behold, poor sweet sick Maya:

Poor baby. Oh how I cuddled her. I didn't give a thought to catching what she had even before I knew it was Roseola and I would not catch it. I cuddled her.

But something has changed over the years. I've gotten much worse, and I've also had another baby, and now, I don't know, my aim is to protect the littlest one. At the expense of my biggest one, I guess. Because that's how I roll.

So I am a terrible mother. I am terrible because my child is sick. She is sick with a bad chest-cold, and when I hear her cough horribly and gag with phlegm to the point of almost vomiting, I don't immediately run to comfort her, I cringe and flinch. I CRINGE AND FLINCH. Who does that? Me, I guess. OCD Me. Mother of the Fucking Year over here.

---

Literally, as I was writing this last night, Maya woke up from her nap, and I tried to give her love. My kind of love. OCD love. I hugged her, parked her in front of Wow Wow Wubbzy with her 5-hour-old refrigerated peppermint vanilla-bean frappuccino (because nothing says I Love You like leftover refrigerated frappuccino) and hope she'll keep coughing into her elbow and won't infect the baby.

On Manicures and Pedicures.

...no, not the Fish Kind.

So awhile back, I asked my friend S (of the S&M variety) what she does to her nails, because they are always so pretty. Turns out she gets acrylics. I always had bad associations of acrylic nails, thinking they were for the over-sixties crowd and were always thick, horribly long, beyellowed horrors:

...or that they were a "designer" nightmare:

But S's nails were always so lovely.

So one day I decided to go for it.

Now, I've always been wary of getting manis and pedis. I mean, there are so many horror stories of people getting nail fungus or other atrocious problems, and you have to make sure they sterilize properly, and each salon is always kind of hit or miss (and usually "miss" in a big big way) until you really find Your Place.

So S and I went on a trek to find Our Place. We had our acrylics done at a certain joint a bit southeast of us, and I was actually quite pleased for a first timer:

Nice, normal, natural. Thus, I was hooked. 

And since then, we've gone to a few other places closer to where we live, trying to find Our Place. We went to one salon on a whim, where, thank God we had the pedi done first, because they did such an atrocious job on our feet (they couldn't even do a decent job applying polish--I mean CUB OD)--

--that I can't even imagine what they would have done when applying our acrylic nail fills, so after the pedis, we skedaddled out, slyly claiming a "time conflict," and then had our nails done elsewhere. We lucked out, because it turned out that the "elsewhere" is Our Place. I think we found it. Pricier, but very very nice. And they did a great job on our acrylic fills.

The only problem? Oh, y'know, a little thing called Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. I mean, talk about pressing the limits of my germaphobia. Even when the salon is pristine, and the autoclave is directly in my line of sight, imagine the balls it takes for me to sit there and basically hold hands with a stranger for 45 minutes, or let them scrub my feet and massage my entire lower legs and just pray to the Patron Saint of Shaven Callouses that the equipment truly is fresh and clean and that I'm not picking up a raging case of someone's tinea pedis or HIV or zombie flu. I've seen one too many places take cursory swipes of their pedicure bowls with a rotting, grimy sponge to feel confident in the cleanliness of the water my feet are soaking in. Plus, (1) what is that blue crystal stuff they add to the water; and (B) what does it actually do--disinfect, soften, or just prettify the water; and (iii) do they think it can actually accomplish anything if they add it by the micro-mili-scoop? I mean, that shit is added with a cocaine spoon, y'all. What could it possibly do but turn the water a little bit blue? It sure ain't killing no zombie foot-hepatitis.

Anyway.

So the last time S and I went out in search of Our Place, and we had Series of Unfortunate Events before actually finding a nice salon, after getting my toes did in the GROCE SALON, I came home and first scrubbed off my feet with Sani-Hands for Kids (which really should be called "Sani-Hands-and-Feet for Kids and OCDers"--they're missing their market) so that I could dare tread on the carpets of my pristine home--

--and then made my way to the bathroom and literally took a full shower, scrubbing down my entire leg area. Three times. Seriously, three times.

Anyway, so far so good. No Zombie flu or raging fungal infections, but sweet God is my toenail polish job atrocious. I can't wait for my next appointment at Our Place where I will get them redone. And then go home and take a bleach bath anyway, even IF Our New Place is hygienic to the naked eye. I mean, surely germs and fungi can live in the jars of nail polish, right? And those can't be disinfected and are reused constantly, round the clock? And....and.....

...OK, I should end this entry now before I work myself into A State.

Pediculus Humanus Capitis. *scritch scritch scritch*

OK. So. Lice.

I think the first time we got lice--and you know this is gonna be a good story if it starts with "and the FIRST time we got [a plague]"--was when I was about seven and I went to after-school daycare at the Young Men's Christian Association.

We suddenly had a mandatory "lice check" one day, and lo and frickin behold, I "tested positive." I was stunned. Lice? What? Me? I got sent home. We treated the situation the best we could. It was all new to us, but my poor single mother dealt with it in between working 8 billion jobs and shit.

I remember that the YMCA had a couple more random checks as well, and I got sent home another time too. Talk about humiliation. You go into the nurse's office and you don't return. HMMM. WONDER WHY. WHERE'S JO? LICE MUCH?

When I caught The Lice (and I will forever blame this one girl Gwen and her licey ways), my family did everything that we should have done. We repeatedly shampooed our hair with Rid, we sprayed the carseats, the hairbrushes, and combs, we froze the cloze, we bugbombed the house while we stayed in a Travelodge motel (forever after referred to as The Lice Motel). But if you recall, our house was the Pit of Despair, and we had clothes and laundry and mess and junk and crap and bullshit everywhere; i.e., plenty of places for those crafty lice to hide.

At some point, through heroic efforts, we kept the lice at bay, but only temporarily. It seemed a battle we were always...er, battling.

The next major lice war I remember, it was when I was in 5th grade. I had newly discovered boys, a certain boy in particular. I was in love with one Mitchell Marchant. Love, I tell you. Young young love.

I had also discovered the phone. (This was before my phone phobia.) I was on the phone all the time with Mitchell. I would hide in my mom's room for some semblance of privacy, since that was the farthest that the phone cord would stretch. This was before cordless phones, child, and long, long, long before cell phones. We would talk until the wee hours. And by that I mean 8 pm.

Well, one day at school, the nurse was doing her rounds, and it was time for one of her mandatory lice checks. Got-damn those mandatory lice checks. One by one, she took everyone into the back of the room and carefully combed through their hair with a pick and a magnifying glass.

My turn came.

LICE!! FUUUUUUUUUCK!!!

I was sent home in the middle of the school day. I was mortified. Because that only meant one thing. And worse, Mitchell knew it only meant one thing: His 5th grade telephone girlfriend had lice.

Well, my family did the old routine lice treatment: shampoo, spray, bugbomb, Lice Motel. Rinse, repeat. RINSE, REPEAT. After a few bouts of it, we were done. Again.

Then came 7th grade. And gym class. After (sooooo not) sweating it up during gym, all the girls wanted to share my awesome Sassy hairbrush, since I was the only one who ever thought to bring one. I obliged, wanting desperately to be cool. And like Gwen in those YMCA days of yore, Megan Hughes proved to be my downfall. One day, I noticed how good it felt to deeply brush my hair. I kept brushing. And brushing. Scratching, if you will. And the next day, Megan Fucking Hughes was sent home with lice. And guess who had shared my brush the week before, in gym class? Megan F. Hughes.

That day I went home and looked at my scalp up-close-like in the vanity mirror.

Wham. Lice.

SHITBALLS AND A HALF.  Would it ever end? Fuck you forever, Megan Fucking Hughes.

And this was particularly bad timing. My brother was being baptized that very night. We had found out like two hours before that we had lice. That's right, he was about to become a CHILD OF GOD and here I was, realizing we had a PARASITE OF SATAN on our very scalps. And I was the one who had to tell him. I have to say, he took the news graciously. You can't very well accept the bread of life and the salvation of God and the peace of the Lord and then flip the fuck out on your little sister for catching lice for the 84936584378th time. We treated our hair, prayed to the Patron Saint of Bloodsuckers that headlice couldn't be transmitted via baptismal font, and hoped that we were done with this shit.

Thank you sweet tiny God, we were.

It never happened again.


Finally, victory. Headlice? GTFO!!

Anyway, it may have taken 84936584378 times, but it was at this moment at the age of 12 that a phobia was born. From this point on out, every request to borrow my hairbrush was denied. DE-MOTHERFUCKING-NIED.

People hated and resented me because of it. I was a veritable gym class pariah. It was mortifying at such a tender age. But I stood my ground and said no, you may NOT borrow my hairbrush. I was as afraid of lice as I was of someone vomiting. If I saw someone scratch their head, I was instantly on red alert. But because of that, we never caught lice again.

But that doesn't mean I am not still paranoid to within an inch of my life, especially now that Maya's in school.

And no. You may not borrow my hairbrush, EVER.



I leave you with this:

...Relief??

I'll have you know that my baby kicked her cold's bum-bum because she is....

SUPER NOEY!!!

. . .

Know what's weird?

Once Maya actually came down with a cold, and Naomi and I immediately caught it, it's almost like...like I could relax. I mean, I get so afraid that the kids or my husband or I will get sick that I spend all my time thinking about it, but now that we actually got effing sick, I could stop most of the all-consuming anxiety. (Athough, for the duration of the cold, the anxiety is contained to worrying about Naomi choking on mucous in the night--that fear doesn't just go away.)

I'll tell you a story. Awhile back, when Naomi was only about a month old, I caught a cold. A really bad, lingering one. It started with a terrible sore throat, and progressed to a snotty runny nose and a terrible cough. I was in full blown panic mode. Definitely Code Red. I mean, we are talking none more red.

I was so afraid of getting my tiny baby sick, that I wore a mask. WORE A FUCKING FACE MASK, for more than a week and a half. And not just the flimsy-paper doctor kind of mask, but the full-on N95-1860 particle respirator, which--

"...meets both OSHA requirements and CDC guidelines for TB exposure control. The model 1860 may be used during laser surgery, electrocautery, and other procedures involving powered medical instruments. Intended to help reduce wearer exposure to airborne particles in a size range of 0.1 to > 10.0 microns generated during these procedures. Fluid resistant to provide .99% BFE against microorganisms and help reduce potential contamination and exposure of the wearer to the spray, spatter, and aerosol of blood and body fluids.inst micron-size particles. CDC recommended to protect against avian and swine flu."

You know, the ones I bought when I was certain everyone was going to die dead of H1N1?

Anyway, when I caught that first cold, I wore it every time I fed the baby or held her or leaned over her to change her diaper, and after that first week and a half, I let myself take it off but still held it briefly over my face every time I had to cough. (The cough lingered.) And it was really fucking annoying. It's hard to breathe through those things. They are THICK. Pray to the Patron Saint of Effluvia that we don't ever have to wear them to protect against Zombie Flu or something.

Not only did I wear a mask, but my husband slept in the baby's room with her, instead of having her in the bassinet in our room next to me. I had to go like two precious weeks without kissing her. And I was fanatical about washing. I mean more than usual. If I touched my nose, I washed. If I ate and my hands touched my mouth, I washed. If I breathed, I washed. If I coughed into my elbow, I'd go take a hydrochloric acid bath. You get the point. I was living in terror. But, my efforts paid off. My tiny newborn did not catch my cold.

So now that we're past that fiasco, and Naomi did catch this new cold? While it broke my heart seeing her too sniffly to even suck her binky, and seeing her mouth-breathing like a jerk, I just kind of let go of some of the stress. Because what's done is done--we caught it. We got sick. I didn't have to try anymore to have her not get THIS cold.

I caught it, but she caught it too, so I didn't have to go around wearing a gas mask and a HazMat suit and spritzing bleach about.

But seriously, doesn't this poor sick baby break your heart?

Being sick sucks. Having sick babies sucks. But this cold, we couldn't avoid.

Doesn't mean I'm not going to go into full gas-mask and HazMat mode when there's a Zombie Flu outbreak.

THE BOLT INCIDENT.

One fine day, years and years ago, my mother and I set out to have lunch at the Olive Garden. Pure class, I know. But come on, their breadsticks. Delicious.

So I ordered my favorite meal, the Capellini Pomodoro. When it arrived, I took my fork in hand and gave the pasta a nice stir. Suddenly, a bolt appeared before me. I repeat. A BOLT. A fuck. ing. bolt.

The second I saw it, I stood up and backed away in surprise, nearly toppling my chair. I was stunned beyond belief. A bolt. I mean, of all the unsavory things you have heard of finding in food--hairs, bugs, bandaids--but a metal bolt?

I called the waiter over, explaining the situash, and he said he'd talk to the manager.  I expected the manager to rush over on bended knee (though that would be logistically difficult), pleading for my forgiveness, and basically offer me his firstborn. Instead, the manager strolled over to me and the first words out his mouth were, "I'm sorry, but we have no bolts like that of any kind anywhere in our kitchen."

...So, you see, effectively blaming ME for putting the bolt in my food. As if I had been attempting to score a free meal out of it all.

Now, again, let me say. If one wanted a free meal, what might one sneak into their Capellini Pomodoro? A beetle? A short, suspiciously wiry hair? A peanut, claiming deathly allergies? WAIT NO, HAI I KNOW, A FUCKING THREE-INCH-LONG METAL FUCKING BOLT. That's the ticket. That's what I'll slip into my meal. It's foolproof!! It's genius! I'm a fucking wizard!

So yeah, the manager was basically calling me a liar. I did get a free replacement bowl of Cap/Pom out of it, but God only knows what they secretly put in it the second time around. I said a prayer to the Patron Saint of Disgruntled Food Workers and ate my new & improved 100% bolt-free pasta.

But you better believe that I Wrote a Letter. Because I Write Letters. When I experience a great injustice, I write letters, and I GET RESPONSES. I am the queen of writing letters. (Por ejemplo, I got $1,100 out of Fred Meyer once for ruining a roll of film I took in to be developed. I am That Good.)

Anyway, after writing my letter, and receiving a personal call from the Head Honcho of the O.G. herself, I think I could have eaten free for a week there because of how many vouchers I got. She was astonished at my tale of being served Capellini al Bolt, and was covering her ass truly apologetic.

And since then, I have bravely dined at the Olive Garden other times. I've come to expect certain atrocities: chicken that tastes bafflingly like sausage; salad that is soggy 10 out of every 10 times; lipstick on the water glasses; etc. But at least I've found no more metal equipment or tools of any sort in my mediocre Italian cuisine.

Oh, and if you ever need a letter of complaint written for you, that will be ten (10) American U.S. dollars, please.

Relief?

I'll have you know that my baby kicked her cold's bum-bum because she is....

SUPER NOEY!!!

. . .

Know what's weird?

Once Maya actually came down with a cold, and Naomi and I immediately caught it, it's almost like...like I could relax. I mean, I get so afraid that the kids or my husband or I will get sick that I spend all my time thinking about it, but now that we actually got effing sick, I could stop most of the all-consuming anxiety. (Athough, for the duration of the cold, the anxiety is contained to worrying about Naomi choking on mucous in the night--that fear doesn't just go away.)

I'll tell you a story. Awhile back, when Naomi was only about a month old, I caught a cold. A really bad, lingering one. It started with a terrible sore throat, and progressed to a snotty runny nose and a terrible cough. I was in full blown panic mode. Definitely Code Red. I mean, we are talking none more red.

I was so afraid of getting my tiny baby sick, that I wore a mask. WORE A FUCKING FACE MASK, for more than a week and a half. And not just the flimsy-paper doctor kind of mask, but the full-on N95-1860 particle respirator, which--

"...meets both OSHA requirements and CDC guidelines for TB exposure control. The model 1860 may be used during laser surgery, electrocautery, and other procedures involving powered medical instruments. Intended to help reduce wearer exposure to airborne particles in a size range of 0.1 to > 10.0 microns generated during these procedures. Fluid resistant to provide .99% BFE against microorganisms and help reduce potential contamination and exposure of the wearer to the spray, spatter, and aerosol of blood and body fluids.inst micron-size particles. CDC recommended to protect against avian and swine flu."

You know, the ones I bought when I was certain everyone was going to die dead of H1N1?

Anyway, when I caught that first cold, I wore it every time I fed the baby or held her or leaned over her to change her diaper, and after that first week and a half, I let myself take it off but still held it briefly over my face every time I had to cough. (The cough lingered.) And it was really fucking annoying. It's hard to breathe through those things. They are THICK. Pray to the Patron Saint of Effluvia that we don't ever have to wear them to protect against Zombie Flu or something.

Not only did I wear a mask, but my husband slept in the baby's room with her, instead of having her in the bassinet in our room next to me. I had to go like two precious weeks without kissing her. And I was fanatical about washing. I mean more than usual. If I touched my nose, I washed. If I ate and my hands touched my mouth, I washed. If I breathed, I washed. If I coughed into my elbow, I'd go take a hydrochloric acid bath. You get the point. I was living in terror. But, my efforts paid off. My tiny newborn did not catch my cold.

So now that we're past that fiasco, and Naomi did catch this new cold? While it broke my heart to see her too sniffly to even suck her binky, and mouth-breathing like a jerk, I just kind of let go of some of the stress. Because what's done is done--we caught it. We got sick. I didn't have to try anymore to have her not get THIS cold.

I caught it, but she caught it too, so I didn't have to go around wearing a gas mask and a HazMat suit and spritzing bleach about.

But seriously, doesn't this poor sick baby break your heart?

Being sick sucks. Having sick babies sucks. But this cold, we couldn't avoid.

Doesn't mean I'm not going to go into full gas-mask and HazMat mode when there's a Zombie Flu outbreak.