Tales of Me and the Husband

I never really knew I was a germophobe until I had a baby.  I do the normal handwashing, always have.  Before lunch or dinner, after the bathroom.  I’ve skipped both a time or two though.  Drinking out of other people’s cups?  Never really into that.  I think that’s my Mom in me – she was never one to share a cup or a chapstick – cold sores and colds and such.

But, it really reared its head (its squeaky clean antibacterialized head!) when I had a baby.

He was so fresh!  So small!  New and fragile!

I talked to Steve (ad nauseum!) before even bringing him home from the hospital.  “So, we’re going to make the kids wash their hands before touching him.  Right?”

Bless his heart, he always agreed with me with a resounding “of course” even though this was baby number five for him and, if he ever did have any baby-induced-cleanliness-obsessions, surely they’d have rubbed off by now.

Even when making dinner, writing a grocery list, on the phone with a friend, I was always (honestly, still am, but to a much lesser degree) aware of who had Parker, whether they’d washed their hands, how close they were to his face.  I can hear a cough or an oncoming cold from a mile away.  It’s become my mantra when William and Lindsey come in the door from school: wash your hands, guys!  They always oblige.  (And, for the record, I have made a point of thanking them time and time again for doing their part in keeping Parker free of sickness.)  I have felt his forehead more times than I care to admit (nearly every other day since he’s been born–there!  I said it!).  “Steve, does he feel warm to you?”  No was the likely answer so–check!–Parker was healthy another day.  I told myself all serious illnesses start with a warm forehead.  Cause they do, right?

It’s both a blessing and a curse.  This incredible awareness all the time.  It made it hard to sleep in and just let Steve bring Parker downstairs even when sleep was exactly what I needed.  It made it hard to run off and do some laundry while Parker was occupied with somebody else.  At times, mostly in the hormonal and hazy beginnings of my new baby-mama role, it was debilitating.  I had multiple natural hand sanitizers (who am I kidding?  They’re still here.) nearby: two in the diaper bag, one in the stroller cup holder, another in the car door.  They’re my safety net.  They’re there so that I can rest at night knowing that, at the very least, I managed to rid myself of most of the grocery cart germs.  It’s like, in case something happens to him, I know I did my best to avoid it (I don’t even like writing that.).

I’m not sure where the foundations for this fear are.  When Parker was about 4 weeks old, he spit up the tiniest bit of blood.  A tiny reddish-brownish spot amongst lots of newborn drool on the neck of his white onesie.  He had a lot of spit-up.  He had some reflux–not significant enough to treat him for it–but nevertheless, I got spit up straight down my newfound cleavage more times than I care to admit as he faced inward in the baby carrier.  Multiple outfit changes were expected in a day.

Anyway, this tiny spot of blood had me racked with fear.  My Mom-brain went to the worst.  He had a horrible disease, or congenital heart failure.  Cause, a tiny amount of blood in spit up equals those!  We took him to our local hospital at 2 am when he was crying inconsolably.  I was very serious, very matter-of-fact.  I had a job to do it and it was to make sure my baby was ok.  At our local hospital, there was no doctor on call who specialized in infants–so they suggested we head to Children’s in Boston.  We spent the night there as they ruled out everything in Parker.  An X-ray, multiple attempts at drawing blood in his tiny little arm, heel pricks (He still has a few little heel prick scars that break my heart a little.).  It was the worst.  At one point when they were trying to draw blood again (and failing again), I had to excuse myself making Steve say with him.  I went to the public restroom and wept.  I mean wept.  I begged God to keep my baby safe, to keep him here with me.  I nearly got on my knees (but, you know, the germs!).  It was the worst night.  We left with a diagnosis: reflux.  You’d think I’d breathe a big ‘ol sigh of relief but I questioned it.  “What if they didn’t catch the real cause?”  “How do they KNOW?”  Cause Children’s Hospital in Boston isn’t known for being, like, the premiere place to bring your kid or anything.

I can’t pin that situation as the one that made me a nutcase.  Because, in all honesty, I was one before that happened.  But, it certainly did not help matters.  It was the universe’s way of poking fun at me: na, na, na, na, na!  You’re crazy already?!  We’re gonna make you even crazier!”

There’d even be times when he’d start banging his chubby little hands on a restaurant table before I had the chance to give it a Bridget-approved wipe down.  I’d tell myself, “Surely, he’s going to get sick from this.  It’s bound to happen.”  A few days later–you know, 48 to 72 hours which is the normal incubation period!–he’d be healthy.  It’s a miracle!  A Christmas miracle!

Now that Parker is almost a year old, I can attest to babies being more resilient than I give them credit for.  I can attest to my craziness (Will I do it all over again with a potential number two?  Quite possibly.).  I can understand some of the eye-rolls I got from a few friends when I asked them to wash their hands before holding Parker (but do I still wish they’d just do it because I’m the new Mom who’s gonna do one of two things: worry about the germs you will or will not give my baby and/or be up with a sick baby because of the germs you do give my baby?  YES.).  I can breathe a sigh of relief because we made it to one year!  Nearly sickness free.  In fact, here’s a fun tidbit for you: when I began writing this post–weeks ago–Parker hadn’t had his first cold, sniffle, ear infection, cough, nothing.  I walked away from the post for a week or so because it was just taking me awhile to find the time to write it.  In that time, he got croup.  He got croup!  And we lived through it!  So, there.  I can’t finish this post with a perfect A-plus for health, but… close enough.

Why am I saying all of this?  I don’t know.  Maybe there’s another Mom, new or not, who is in this situation, was in it, will soon be in it.  You’re not alone.  These babies make one vulnerable on a level that gets so deep you can feel it in your belly.  We can’t control everything, of course not.  But, it seemed, for me anyway, keeping him germ-free was in my control so I owned it.  Oh yeah I did.

(Oh!  And I know that germs are good.  Really, I have chilled out a lot.  I tell myself to let Parker crawl around on the floor, let him put his hands in his mouth… all of those things.  In the long-run, they help his immune system.  A sanitized world is no help to his health in the long run.  And so, bring it, germs!)

{picture by Sara}