My kids make me sick!

I never used to get sick.

Every once in a while, sure. But it wasn’t really a regular phenomenon. It also didn’t really matter that much when I did. Yeah, I had work to get done and grocery shopping to do. But when I was a young single guy without any kids, getting sick just didn’t really impact my easy life that much.

I’ve also tried avoiding the illness at all costs. Washing my hands constantly. Staying away from the kids a little. Hugging them gently rather than wrestling like a madman.

Couch bound

Before that, when I was a kid, I loved getting “sick.” Those scare quotes are key. I didn’t actually love getting sick so much as I loved staying home from school because I was sick. That was fun. One day home from school was cool. Two days home was crazy. Going to sleep after the first day home sick, it was glorious knowing that unless a miracle occurred in the middle of the night, there would be yet another day of sitting at home on the couch watching TV.

I remember one year I got mono, and I was home for more than a week. I swear it may have been two weeks. I remember secretly wondering how long I could go with it. “What if I didn’t go back for a month?” A kid can only dream of something so beautiful.

Mono was a serious illness, I guess, but I don’t ever remember really being sad about it. Getting out of school was worth far more than the pain of a sore throat or a feverish head.

Germ magnet

Now I get sick a lot. Well, maybe not a lot, but a lot more than I used to in my 20s, and I certainly don’t like it like I did in my early teens. Now I know without a shadow of a doubt that as soon as I start seeing frost on the grass in the morning, I am going to get sick. And then a month or two after that, I am going to get sick again. And maybe even again after that if I’m really unlucky.

It’s not because I have developed a debilitating disease that results in an unnaturally sickly disposition. It’s because I’m a dad, and my kids are young, and young kids touch stuff in the stores and then stick their hands in their mouths, and then three days later one gets sick, then 24 hours after that another one gets it, and then my wife, and then finally me. Whatever it is runs through the house like a steamroller, and we all get squashed.

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Amor fati

I’ve tried a variety of different tactics over the years. I’ve tried giving up right from the start. Knowing that I’ll get it eventually, I accept my fate and just sort of live life with the sick kids. It feels pretty good psychologically. I’m not worried or stressed out about how I can avoid the illness. I don’t end up over-monitoring my body, trying to discern if I am getting sick or not. I just sort of march toward the cold in a blissful state.

I’ve also tried avoiding the illness at all costs. Washing my hands constantly. Staying away from the kids a little. Hugging them gently rather than wrestling like a madman. Backing my face away as they cough without covering their mouths, then telling them in a frustrated tone, “You need to cover your mouth.” Trying my hardest to prevent the unpreventable. It’s not a great feeling, and I always end up getting sick anyway. But at least I tried. That’s something, right?

Getting sick is just a part of having kids. I know that now. It can be mitigated by hounding them about washing their hands with hot soapy water and not touching their mouths in stores, but it can’t be eliminated entirely. It’s an inescapable fact of family life. If someone gets sick, everyone gets sick.

Family fever

It’s an allegory, of course. When you have a family, you can’t get away. You can’t separate or isolate. You are no longer just yourself. You are everyone at the same time.

We have our separate bedrooms and separate closets, but we share the same space. We have our own plates and silverware, but we share the same dish. We have our own inner thoughts and our own personalities, but we share the same name, the same blood, and the same familial predispositions that are part nature and part nurture, the ones that can’t really be untangled or even really figured out.

We make our kids into the kids they are in ways we can see and in ways we intend, through the prayers we say and the manners we demand. But we make them into who they are in other ways too. Some we don’t see, and some are unintentional: the phrase a kid says that sounds just like mom or the curse word a kid says that makes you realize you really do need to stop swearing.

We make them, and they make us. I’m different now from what I was before, and it’s partly because they made me that way. When you have a family, you are not only taking on the responsibilities of raising kids but also accepting that you aren’t alone anymore. That nothing in life will be tidy (literally or figuratively) like it was before. You are trapped together, you turn yourself over to no longer being yourself and only yourself.

For better or for worse. In sickness and in health.