I am not a germaphobe. I have a whole list of other neuroses (read our archives if you don’t believe me), but germaphobic-ness is not among them. I typically ascribe to the “that which does not kill you” philosophy about germs.
However.
My kids have a way of finding the absolute grossest item in a ten-mile radius, and touching, licking, or generally wallowing in it. And it is about enough to send me over the edge.
We went out of town this past weekend, and I don’t know if it was just that I was a hormonal mess or that things seem grosser away from home, but seriously my kids were killing me with all the nasty things they were doing. First of all, we ate in a lot of restaurants, obviously, and even on a good day, restaurant high chairs make me cringe. So I felt like Sammy was a giant germ cesspool from that alone. (Yes, I have a Floppy Seat and yes, I was diligent about it when Kate was little, but alas it remains in a closet somewhere with the rest of the we’re-awesome-first-time-parents paraphernalia.) When we got to our hotel room, I just had to pop a Xanax and come to terms with the fact that I could not prevent him from crawling on the floor for our entire four-day stay.
And Kate. That girl has always been a magnet for disgusting. She spent the weekend laying down on the bench seat at Burger King and not just holding but lovingly stroking the handrails at Busch Stadium.
Seriously, the day she decides that touching the toilet seat is not absolutely crucial to the getting-off-the-potty process will be one of the proudest days of my life.
At one point I turned to Andy and said “I don’t know how real germaphobes ever leave the house, because I am about to have an anxiety attack.”
But I’m not a germaphobe. For real. You believe me, right?
Damn. Add that one to the list too.
