Welcome To The Cold-Of-The-Month Club!

Who knew that by starting Thing 1 and Thing 2 (son and daughter, respectively) in preschool last fall, we'd be automatically enrolled in this heinous club? Since beginning school, Thing 1 hasn't met a germ he hasn't liked ... and I mean liked enough to bring home to mom.

By some miracle, Thing 2 managed to catch only some of the bugs that kept Thing 1 sucking Benadryl through a syringe nightly at 3 a.m., but Late Blooming Mom was not spared. Not once. And just try keeping fit, eating right, and exercising like moms of our age are supposed to, when the 24-hour stomach virus sweeps through your kids' class like a Malibu wildfire. The first night, he got it; the second night, she did. Night three was Late Blooming Mom's turn. Fitting.
After Thanksgiving, it was back to mere colds, so I guess I should've been thankful. Mopping up was no longer required. But on a third or fourth work-day-killing trip to the pediatrician to see if that cough really was pneumonia (sadly, it was), the Doc looked at me and grinned evilly. I could tell what he was thinking: payback was finally here. See, I didn't breast feed the kids as long as he'd have liked me to, and he insists breast-fed kids don't get sick as often as their formula-fed peers. (Sue me, I didn't have enough milk, you holier-than-thou, non-lactating male in a white coat.) His eyes twinkling in sinister delight, the Doc looked at me and my sniffling offspring and said, "You know, it's not unheard of for kids in preschool to get ten, even twelve, colds a year." This was followed by another evil grin.

Kids, wash your hands. NOW. I MEAN IT. ...Please?