Germaphobia
By
Celeste Palermo, copyright 2004
I have always been germ-conscious. As a child, I was not allowed to share drinks at school. My mother, worried I might catch a cold or worse, planted the seeds of germ-awareness. High school and college biology teachers helped my garden “germinate” by informing me of all the bacteria, worms, and parasites in our environment. I became fastidious about hand washing—even a tad bit paranoid. When I started to cook, I was careful handling raw chicken and eggs—fearful of salmonella. I would not eat raw cookie dough for the same reason. Anything in the refrigerator more than a few days, I would chuck. A yogurt one day past the sell date was history. “If in doubt, throw it out” was my mantra.
After our wedding, my husband and I combined all our possessions; Pete brought the contents of his refrigerator to our new home in a cooler. In true bachelor style, the cooler contained mostly condiments—with no less than seven half-used bottles of barbeque sauce. Not knowing how old the sauces were, (and fearful of botulism) I threw them all in the trash.
“Hey! Where are all my barbeque sauces?” he asked the next night as we sat down to dinner.
“I threw them away,” I said, not realizing I had committed a mortal sin.
“You did WHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTT?” he cried.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t want you to get sick…some of those looked pretty old.”
Over time, Pete grew accustomed to my germaphobia, and I even relaxed some…that is, until the birth of our first child.
Two days after Peyton was born, I left the hospital with our newborn and a full-blown case of germaphobia. Fearful her immune system was not up to the rigors of the outside world, I limited outings. I carried baby wipes and antibacterial hand gel everywhere. I would cringe when someone nearby would sneeze…holding my breath as I made a fast getaway with my daughter. I avoided playgroups and settings where we might encounter another sick child. “Don’t touch that” became my new mantra. I tried to control her exposures, frantic to keep her healthy. But you can’t control everything.
She attempted to cut teeth on the handle of the grocery cart. She ate a cigarette butt at the park —filter and all, licking her fingers as if she had eaten tasty fried chicken. She tried to eat a piece of gum she discovered under her seat at a baseball game. When she started preschool, she was sick all the time. (I believe she had “strep receptors” like little satellite dishes in her head, honing in on any bacteria within in a thirty-mile radius.) She was a veritable germ magnet and I, a hovering, nervous mom.
One day, during a move into a new house, I found a small ceramic cup under a bathroom sink. It looked as if it had been used to hold toothbrushes for the previous family. The bottom inside of the cup resembled an overgrown Petri dish, full of gray sludgy matter that looked like melted silly putty. Black clusters of mold and white toothpaste stains striped the sides. I could barely touch the cup—I rushed it to the kitchen sink and filled it with hot water to soak.
A few days later, Pete was making tea and offered me a cup.
“I want tea, too,” said Peyton. “Can I have kid tea?” (Kid tea is a mix of hot water, milk, and a touch of decaf tea.)
“OK,” Pete agreed, making tea for us all, bringing me my cup and setting Peyton’s on the kitchen table.
“Mine is hot,” Peyton said. She flitted around the living room, periodically going back to sip her tea. When I got up, I saw it. Peyton was drinking out of the old bacteria-ridden cup.
“Oh, sick! This is the old toothbrush cup!” I yelled. I grabbed it and dumped the tea in the sink. The bottom was still murky and discolored.
“Why didn’t you just throw it out?” Pete asked after I explained its origin.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. Any logical person would have thrown it in the trash.
That night I worried Peyton would develop some strange illness. I made myself sick worrying. Peyton, on the other hand, felt fine.
Thinking back, when Peyton has become ill, I am not usually aware of when or how the exposure occurred. The germ events that have grossed me out most—the shopping cart, the cigarette, the toothbrush cup—never caused illness. Germs are ubiquitous; you cannot avoid them, which leads me to conclude: kids are resilient little buggers. Though Peyton does get sick…as all kids do…it is rarely when I am trying to micro-manage her germ exposure. Despite all the germs she must encounter, she is healthy.
With our second child, Morgan, I am much more relaxed. If she drops her pacifier, I do not steam clean it. Instead, I use the “three-second rule” and pop it back in her mouth. If she eats dirt, I don’t worry about worms and parasites, I count it as an extra serving of fiber. If our Lab laps her on the mouth, I do not run for the iodine, but delight in the bond between daughter and dog.
Do not get me wrong, I still line public toilets with miles of toilet paper. I am still fastidious about hand washing. I still avoid playgroups where other kids have “green” runny noses. But I do not make myself crazy. I do what I can and leave the rest to God. He is ultimately in control. Thank goodness for that.
