The great thing about the holidays is getting to spend so much time together.
Yes — all that lovely family time — spent in close quarters.
Time to hug, snuggle up on the couch, and spread the love around.
And, we’ve certainly had a lot to share this year.
In fact, during the last few weeks, we’ve sort of turned it into a competition at our house. And we’ve tested just about every which way we can trade around the various illnesses that have plagued our family this holiday season.
It’s like the gift that keeps on giving.
But, in truth, it seems I get sick about this time, every year. It’s become a sort of special time to look forward to. A time when I can get nothing done, but just be thankful to still be breathing.
Drat kids. Since having children, I spend more time sick than ever before. This wasn’t on the warning label.
They pick up everything and anything, and bring it back home to you.
But, after spending an hour in a Kindergarten class the other day, it’s obvious why. I don’t know how the teachers make it through the year without plastic gloves and gas masks.
And, I can’t point fingers, because I’m right there in the midst of disgusting things that children do.
My four-year-old absolutely refuses to properly blow his nose, despite all my attempts to get him to do so.
Now I know he possesses the skills, because, while he avoids tissues, he chooses to blow his nose on just about everything else within reach in my house.
I’ve told the boys they owe me money for a carpet cleaning; I suppose I will have to deduct that from their allowances (for the next few years).
As a common courtesy, I’ve tried to avoid making contact with the public at all costs. But there are the special occasions when I must run out of the house to buy food, and of course, more Kleenex.
So if you’ve seen us out and about, you might at first smile, but then as we walk toward you, you probably take a step (or more) back.
Yes, we are the people you desperately try to avoid at the grocery store … the icky family.
In fact, I told my kids they have the faces only a mother could love — those covered in popsicles, snot, and pink eye. Yes, those are my darling, dearest ones.
Now, my children will not take any blame for bringing all of this pleasure home to us. In fact, I heard them ask my husband the other day.
“Daddy, you are washing your hands?”
“Yes,” he responded.
“Wow. Mommy never washes her hands.”
Ha! They would lead you to believe we are all sick because mommy avoids personal hygiene practices at all costs. This goes to show, don’t believe everything children tell you.
Apparently, they intend to give me no credit for helping them blow their noses and wash their hands, and yet still diligently giving them their eye drops, and patiently holding a bucket for them to throw up in.
And yes, because of my all-out efforts to help nurse them back to health (despite the fact that I wash my hands ten times more than everyone else), I still always end up sick. A mother’s love is never fully appreciated.
But I know how lucky they are to have me. And the truth is there is nobody I would rather spend my holidays with than my disgusting bunch — I can’t help but love them — crusty eyes, snotty noses, and all.
