I’m not one of those who hovers over her children, who expects the worst, who anticipates disaster. M wielded a stick the other day and I told her that she’s got a good swing. A popped a foreign object in her mouth and I advised her that it’d be arriving in her diaper promptly at 7:48 p.m. that evening, conveniently early enough that her father wouldn’t have to deal with the mess. If a sick aunt kisses them, I don’t immediately disinfect. In fact, I’m almost hopeful that I’ll hear a sniffle or two the next day.

I know, I know. I should be knocking on the nearest wood, I should be biting my tongue. But I’m not. Kids get sick, right? Mine don’t, but normal kids do! In almost fourteen months, I haven’t heard so much as a cough. I should be thankful, but you have to know that this is odd, coming from parents like J and me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not wishing that the girls will get sick. And I am thankful that I haven’t had to endure what some of my friends have. Sick kids are no fun, I get it. And if they are anything like a sick husband, I’ll want no part of it.

I anticipated that the girls would be sick often during their first year of life. They were born a few weeks early and into the beginnings of a Michigan cold spell. Michigan isn’t kind to even its youngest residents in the winter time. It is bitter and it is brutal. And if what I heard was true, from the “lactation consultants” that I had the joy of speaking with during my twenty-four hour magnesium-sulfate treatment following delivery, wherein I was bedridden and incoherent and in a morphine induced nod, I would single-handedly be responsible for my children’s underdeveloped immune system if I could not find a way to produce the wonder drug that is breastmilk.[1] Guess what ladies? Wrong!

When I first met J, we were both sick often. My list included bronchitis, sinusitis, migraines, flus, colds (summer and otherwise). His wasn’t much different, except replace bronchitis with chronic ear infections and take out migraines and replace with vertigo. He was actually taken to the hospital once for the flu. I’ve gotten healthier over the years, and he has too. But given our history, we were armed like soldiers ready for battle. During every weather change, we’d double check nostrils and feel foreheads. Now though, I’m all cocky. Eh, you got a cold? Go ahead, sneeze on her. She won’t get it! See! Kleenex, be damned!

Listen, we’re not careless or anything. I’m not ready to R.S.V.P. for the next Chicken Pox Party and I do carry around a little bottle of Sweet Pea antibacterial hand gel in every diaper bag (yes, I have a few). I’m not asking for trouble people! Really! I’m thankful and all of that.

And I know that this won’t last forever. I know that they aren’t invincible and that one of these days, they’ll catch a cold and I’ll be nursing them back to health. Just please, don’t let it be both of them at the same time. And for God’s sake, please don’t let J catch it too. Because you and I both know that he’ll throw them under the bus for a hot cup of soup, a spot on the couch, the remote control and my undivided attention.

So…who is placing bets on if one of us will catch a cold within the next few weeks? I’m in.

[1] I am in no way negating the scientific fact that breast milk is, in fact, the optimal choice of mothers for feeding their children. What I am doing is calling out the Nazi-like “consultants” that I had the pleasure of being accosted by while I was helpless and medicated and recovering from major surgery.