Screw hand washing. The front door should come equipped with bleach and a shower head

Welcome to Germs in My Formula! The blog that coats you with germs while you sit and read! We've got plenty to go around this week. Today's specials are sinusitis, an ear infection, and a stomach bug. (If you have commitment issues, you can dabble in light stomach cramping and an aching head instead).

Ah, children. How I love them. How I love the veritable petri dishes they are.

They're a great invention, I tell ya. They go out into the world, pick their noses, shove their fingers in strange places, handle every surface known to man, then come back home and share all that germy goodness with the whole family.
 
I've been home sick from work all week. Chuck's been limping along in gastrointestinal distress. Everett's been a delight as he sprouts 29,765 new teeth and battles an inner ear infection. My four-year-old, Junior, was keeping us afloat and then tonight, it all went down the crapper.

Junior started complaining about his stomach right after dinner. (Why must children always get sick on the nights you serve spaghetti? Why?)

He made it to the bathroom (if you have children under the age of three, you understand what a special gift an independent puker is) then asked if I'd carry him, his stuffed animals, and his puke pan upstairs so he could go to sleep.

I said yes, of course. Even though he weighs over 50 pounds and I only weigh 125 (roughly, ehem). Even though our stairs are pitched at a 90 degree incline. Even though I am still weak from being sick myself.

Even though the last thing I wanted to do was to carry him up a steep flight of stairs and risk throwing out my back.



I picked him up, balanced the stuffed bear and giraffe under my arm pits, and cupped the puke pan in my right hand while clinging to the railing with the left.

Halfway up he told me he was going to be sick. I stopped, held the pan under his face, and let him do his thing.

Quite nicely he thanked me, then nodded for me to continue my climb—which I did with all the seriousness and determination of a climber trying to make the summit.

At that moment, as I held the pan and surveyed my surroundings, I was struck by thoughts of what I'd like for Mother's Day.

I realized I don't want diamonds or a spa retreat. Nor do I want fancy clothes, an exotic pet, or a yacht. I don't even care if I get roses. No, I decided that what I really, really want for Mother's Day is to not stand on the stairs—my legs quivering like jelly—while holding a 50-pound vomiting child, a stuffed bear and giraffe, and a puke pan.

And this is what I love most about motherhood: When you exist in a vacuum of bodily fluids, tantrums, and Elmo everything—and I do mean everything—seems so much more wonderful. Everything else is tinged with gold.

And hello, Chuck, this is a gift that is so attainable. I mean, you've got this in the bag, right? Chuck! Quit clutching your stomach and pretending you're in terrible pain. Chuck!