Germaphobia
At the turn of the twentieth century, thousands of people still died in yellow fever epidemics in New Orleans. Scarlett Fever killed a large number of babies per year, in fact one baby left blind and deaf by the Fever would become famous for an incident that invovled her, a teacher and one very important well of water. Polio remained a crippling, terrifying menace until the late 1950's when good old Dr. Salk concocted a vial of magical medicine.
Today, most people only know these diseases from dusty textbooks and autobiographies. Measles, Mumps and Rubella have been eliminated thanks to the MMR vaccine. Of course this vaccine is controversial due to various, uncorroberated theories linking it to autism. My own experience with this theory is, to quote my mother, "Billy got that vaccine when he was ten. He was autistic long before that." So as much as new mothers might fear autism, their kids won't get it from this vaccination.
It's a safer time to be having a baby then it was 100 years ago. My grandmother was one of ten children--only four survived past the age of ten. Asked how these kids died, my Grandmother's answer is the same for each one, "heart," she says. I take this answer to mean that she honestly has no idea how they died. My grandmother's parents were peasants. I don't know if a local doctor was available and if their seven word English vocabulary was enough to provide their ailing children with care.
I'm not sure of the exact number, but New York State tests every hospital born infant for something like 40 ailments, birth defects and medical conditions. The average pregnant woman has about six prenatal tests, screening for everything from genetic defects like cystic fibrosis to chromosonal abnormalities like Spina Bifida.
And yet still, despite our best efforts to guarantee you a worry-free trip down Motherhood Lane, there's still the threat of bird flu, flesh eating bacterias and the dreaded common cold. Now in our "safe" society with so many diseases a thing of the past, germs have risen to the heights of King Kong. The monster under the bed that we outgrew as children returns in the shape of a abnormal cell when we become mothers. Seemingly reasonable adults start Purelling their hands every five minutes. I see more people opening bathroom doors with paper towels so as not to taint their freshly washed hands than ever before. The label "obsessive-compulsive" gets replaced by "frantically nervous new mom." There's the old story that says the first kid gets only a boiled, sterilized pacifier, the second kid gets a rinsed pacifier after it hits the floor and the third kid gets it popped right back into his or her mouth following the binky's fall from grace.
In the case of C and myself, this scenario is sadly true. Since Eliza is his third child, I've seen plenty of pacifiers smack the floor only to be slid right back into her tiny, sweetly pristine mouth. Since Eliza is my first child, I want anything that comes near her lips to be washed with soap and water, then boiled for at least ten minutes. I spend, on average, about 40 minutes to an hour each day sterilizing items that come in contact with my daughter's mouth. Yes, this includes my boobs. I am not as crazy as some mother's who greet me at the door with Purell and insist I take off my shoes. But I now feel there's nothing wrong with asking a guest, upon arrival, to wash their hands while I hover in the backround and like a cheerleader, belt out, "Get the tips of your fingers, yes! Don't scrimp on the soap, yes! Keep your hands under longer, longer yeah!"
So while C has the third child So-cool parent syndrome, I have full-on, first time mama Germaphobia enhanced by a sharp mix of former career managerial mama anxiety. Yes, as a former careerist I approached parenthood with working woman zeal, taking classes, attending group sessions and organizing local mommy gathering all to better serve my new empoyer, teacher and mentor--my child. The clash between the different parenting styles has never been more evident than when we're in the presence of C's children from his first marriage.
Upon arrival of a recent weekend visit, we were greeted at the door by C's oldest daughter who promptly informed us that C's son had a fever and was in bed. This sent panic through me with the force of a pulled fire alarm but I struggled to remain calm in the face of incoming germs. We resolved to keep Eliza and her brother apart which we did for the first few hours. But as her brother's fever broke, C ended his son's quarantine and trotted Eliza upstairs to the room I could only think of as the "sick bay." Although C urged his son to stay back, babies are magnetic and frequent urgings to keep a distance are finally beaten down by the sheer force of that magnitude. I vowed to go to bed and be tougher the following morning, to fight the new sibling bonding process and protect my child with the force of a Roman gladiator, for whom thumbs down meant instant execution at the mouth of a hungry lion.
C's son decided to return to school the following day, a decision that pleased me, surely his ailment must have been minor for so speedy a recovery. However, this new development brought forth it's own host of anxieties as C's son was determined to bring his new sister to school for show and tell. As we bundled her in her bunting and walked the two blocks to the school, I had no clue to the terror that awaited. I imagined only a blissful moment where C's son introduced Eliza to his teacher who'd then humor us with the appropriate polite remarks while tending to her class of wild, crazy third graders. Imagine my horror upon realizing most third graders, or at least these third graders, found my daughter just about the hottest baby on the block. Student after student fought for a front row seat at her stroller as they bent over like old men with myopia for a better look. Merely inches from my daughters face loomed one snotty, coughy, itchy kid after another. But the real kicker was a child, I'll call Ty, who was easily the winner of the Kid-Who-Found-My-Daughter-Most-Enchanting contest. Under normal circumstances, his devotion would have been charming but since poor Ty sported an angry red rash that looked like a "Got Bright Red Cranberry Juice" ad or a raging allergic reaction to a commercial facial hair depilatory, his facination was the cause of blind panic.
The situation was made worse by the teacher's apparent desire to continue the Eliza fawn fest over the sound of the bell. Students were assembling in their seats, things were winding down and still this teacher and our anti-hero Ty, determined to love my daughter against all odds, showed no signs of backing off. Unfortunately for me, Eliza's genial, calm demeanor actually worked against her. While other babies might find this sort of attention disconcerting, even scream-attack necessary, my daughter sat there with the tranquil grace of a buddha, who clearly enjoyed the surging devotion of her charges.
"How calm she is," the teacher noticed and I tried to think of ways to uncalm her. Should I flash a boob, then quickly put it away like dangling the proverbial carrot stick? Should I encourage C to loudly blow his nose knowing this sound is, for some reason, more terrifying to her than a passing fleet of sirened New York City fire engines?
Finally, C's desire for his coffee fix overruled the lovefest and we set out for Starbucks. As soon as we were out of earshot, I commented on poor Ty's creeping crud. C himself something along the lines of "Yes, what was that" than changed the subject. Obviously he would not need weeks of therapy to rid himself of vivid nightmares that involved Ty's rash and the plump, dewey skin of our daughter.
The day passed quietly, our normal routine of feedings, walks and my thorough skin investigations for the start of any forming rashes. As the time approached to meet C's son at the end of the school day, I actually looked forward to the accolades, the devotion, the love my daughter inspires.
However, while in the morning, most students were already in their classes and we traveled to our destination with little interruption, now C and I waited outside the classroom for the final bell to ring. We were met by our firth admirer, the mother of a classmate who leaned in for a peak. She was followed by the mother of C's son's best friend, who not only practically dove in for a better view, but encouraged her three year old to do so as well. The bell rang and C's son was anxious to get outside and play ball, so much so, he didn't care if his teacher saw the dear Eliza again. This cheered me imagining a quick rush to the great outdoors where germs fly around in the air and are less likely to land like tape on my daughter. However the teacher and good old Ty were already stroller side and the ceremonial ahhing had begun. It looked like my daughter had a suiter ready to ask for her hand and instead of being poor or a drug dealer or some other unsavory bloke, he was just a poor kid afflicted with a scowling red rash. With the influx of kids rushing out of classrooms, maneuvering her out of Germ Hell proved felt like trying to get to the Lincoln Tunnel entrance at rush hour.
Finally outside, I greeted the fresh air like a swimmer who hits the surface. I glanced down at my daughter, again unfazed by all this calamnity and wished, just once, for one of those kids who cries all the time, one of those kids who doesn't inspire an army for a fan club. As C and his son played in the school playground, and I walked Eliza in her stroller, we were followed with a stalker's zeal by Ty who kept calling out to the other kids, "Hey look, it's Eliza, Eliza!" Again how charming this would be from a child without a rash. Poor Ty, his only desire is to love, honor and respect my daughter and here I am shooting down his advances like an angry Prophet protecting the faith of an entire people.
As I write this now, my daughter has a cold. C will be back at work while I attend to her cold-induced moodiness. Such is the life of a new Mama and I wouldn't have it any other way. It's not all smooth sailing, but with a baby this magnificent, it can seem that way. I'm ready though and with the prospect of a first cold is another new and exciting prospect of surviving that first cold. Just think of the tone and musculature my mommy muscle will take on with that new development?
Today, most people only know these diseases from dusty textbooks and autobiographies. Measles, Mumps and Rubella have been eliminated thanks to the MMR vaccine. Of course this vaccine is controversial due to various, uncorroberated theories linking it to autism. My own experience with this theory is, to quote my mother, "Billy got that vaccine when he was ten. He was autistic long before that." So as much as new mothers might fear autism, their kids won't get it from this vaccination.
It's a safer time to be having a baby then it was 100 years ago. My grandmother was one of ten children--only four survived past the age of ten. Asked how these kids died, my Grandmother's answer is the same for each one, "heart," she says. I take this answer to mean that she honestly has no idea how they died. My grandmother's parents were peasants. I don't know if a local doctor was available and if their seven word English vocabulary was enough to provide their ailing children with care.
I'm not sure of the exact number, but New York State tests every hospital born infant for something like 40 ailments, birth defects and medical conditions. The average pregnant woman has about six prenatal tests, screening for everything from genetic defects like cystic fibrosis to chromosonal abnormalities like Spina Bifida.
And yet still, despite our best efforts to guarantee you a worry-free trip down Motherhood Lane, there's still the threat of bird flu, flesh eating bacterias and the dreaded common cold. Now in our "safe" society with so many diseases a thing of the past, germs have risen to the heights of King Kong. The monster under the bed that we outgrew as children returns in the shape of a abnormal cell when we become mothers. Seemingly reasonable adults start Purelling their hands every five minutes. I see more people opening bathroom doors with paper towels so as not to taint their freshly washed hands than ever before. The label "obsessive-compulsive" gets replaced by "frantically nervous new mom." There's the old story that says the first kid gets only a boiled, sterilized pacifier, the second kid gets a rinsed pacifier after it hits the floor and the third kid gets it popped right back into his or her mouth following the binky's fall from grace.
In the case of C and myself, this scenario is sadly true. Since Eliza is his third child, I've seen plenty of pacifiers smack the floor only to be slid right back into her tiny, sweetly pristine mouth. Since Eliza is my first child, I want anything that comes near her lips to be washed with soap and water, then boiled for at least ten minutes. I spend, on average, about 40 minutes to an hour each day sterilizing items that come in contact with my daughter's mouth. Yes, this includes my boobs. I am not as crazy as some mother's who greet me at the door with Purell and insist I take off my shoes. But I now feel there's nothing wrong with asking a guest, upon arrival, to wash their hands while I hover in the backround and like a cheerleader, belt out, "Get the tips of your fingers, yes! Don't scrimp on the soap, yes! Keep your hands under longer, longer yeah!"
So while C has the third child So-cool parent syndrome, I have full-on, first time mama Germaphobia enhanced by a sharp mix of former career managerial mama anxiety. Yes, as a former careerist I approached parenthood with working woman zeal, taking classes, attending group sessions and organizing local mommy gathering all to better serve my new empoyer, teacher and mentor--my child. The clash between the different parenting styles has never been more evident than when we're in the presence of C's children from his first marriage.
Upon arrival of a recent weekend visit, we were greeted at the door by C's oldest daughter who promptly informed us that C's son had a fever and was in bed. This sent panic through me with the force of a pulled fire alarm but I struggled to remain calm in the face of incoming germs. We resolved to keep Eliza and her brother apart which we did for the first few hours. But as her brother's fever broke, C ended his son's quarantine and trotted Eliza upstairs to the room I could only think of as the "sick bay." Although C urged his son to stay back, babies are magnetic and frequent urgings to keep a distance are finally beaten down by the sheer force of that magnitude. I vowed to go to bed and be tougher the following morning, to fight the new sibling bonding process and protect my child with the force of a Roman gladiator, for whom thumbs down meant instant execution at the mouth of a hungry lion.
C's son decided to return to school the following day, a decision that pleased me, surely his ailment must have been minor for so speedy a recovery. However, this new development brought forth it's own host of anxieties as C's son was determined to bring his new sister to school for show and tell. As we bundled her in her bunting and walked the two blocks to the school, I had no clue to the terror that awaited. I imagined only a blissful moment where C's son introduced Eliza to his teacher who'd then humor us with the appropriate polite remarks while tending to her class of wild, crazy third graders. Imagine my horror upon realizing most third graders, or at least these third graders, found my daughter just about the hottest baby on the block. Student after student fought for a front row seat at her stroller as they bent over like old men with myopia for a better look. Merely inches from my daughters face loomed one snotty, coughy, itchy kid after another. But the real kicker was a child, I'll call Ty, who was easily the winner of the Kid-Who-Found-My-Daughter-Most-Enchanting contest. Under normal circumstances, his devotion would have been charming but since poor Ty sported an angry red rash that looked like a "Got Bright Red Cranberry Juice" ad or a raging allergic reaction to a commercial facial hair depilatory, his facination was the cause of blind panic.
The situation was made worse by the teacher's apparent desire to continue the Eliza fawn fest over the sound of the bell. Students were assembling in their seats, things were winding down and still this teacher and our anti-hero Ty, determined to love my daughter against all odds, showed no signs of backing off. Unfortunately for me, Eliza's genial, calm demeanor actually worked against her. While other babies might find this sort of attention disconcerting, even scream-attack necessary, my daughter sat there with the tranquil grace of a buddha, who clearly enjoyed the surging devotion of her charges.
"How calm she is," the teacher noticed and I tried to think of ways to uncalm her. Should I flash a boob, then quickly put it away like dangling the proverbial carrot stick? Should I encourage C to loudly blow his nose knowing this sound is, for some reason, more terrifying to her than a passing fleet of sirened New York City fire engines?
Finally, C's desire for his coffee fix overruled the lovefest and we set out for Starbucks. As soon as we were out of earshot, I commented on poor Ty's creeping crud. C himself something along the lines of "Yes, what was that" than changed the subject. Obviously he would not need weeks of therapy to rid himself of vivid nightmares that involved Ty's rash and the plump, dewey skin of our daughter.
The day passed quietly, our normal routine of feedings, walks and my thorough skin investigations for the start of any forming rashes. As the time approached to meet C's son at the end of the school day, I actually looked forward to the accolades, the devotion, the love my daughter inspires.
However, while in the morning, most students were already in their classes and we traveled to our destination with little interruption, now C and I waited outside the classroom for the final bell to ring. We were met by our firth admirer, the mother of a classmate who leaned in for a peak. She was followed by the mother of C's son's best friend, who not only practically dove in for a better view, but encouraged her three year old to do so as well. The bell rang and C's son was anxious to get outside and play ball, so much so, he didn't care if his teacher saw the dear Eliza again. This cheered me imagining a quick rush to the great outdoors where germs fly around in the air and are less likely to land like tape on my daughter. However the teacher and good old Ty were already stroller side and the ceremonial ahhing had begun. It looked like my daughter had a suiter ready to ask for her hand and instead of being poor or a drug dealer or some other unsavory bloke, he was just a poor kid afflicted with a scowling red rash. With the influx of kids rushing out of classrooms, maneuvering her out of Germ Hell proved felt like trying to get to the Lincoln Tunnel entrance at rush hour.
Finally outside, I greeted the fresh air like a swimmer who hits the surface. I glanced down at my daughter, again unfazed by all this calamnity and wished, just once, for one of those kids who cries all the time, one of those kids who doesn't inspire an army for a fan club. As C and his son played in the school playground, and I walked Eliza in her stroller, we were followed with a stalker's zeal by Ty who kept calling out to the other kids, "Hey look, it's Eliza, Eliza!" Again how charming this would be from a child without a rash. Poor Ty, his only desire is to love, honor and respect my daughter and here I am shooting down his advances like an angry Prophet protecting the faith of an entire people.
As I write this now, my daughter has a cold. C will be back at work while I attend to her cold-induced moodiness. Such is the life of a new Mama and I wouldn't have it any other way. It's not all smooth sailing, but with a baby this magnificent, it can seem that way. I'm ready though and with the prospect of a first cold is another new and exciting prospect of surviving that first cold. Just think of the tone and musculature my mommy muscle will take on with that new development?
posted by Litgirl Mama at 2:59 PM
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