Germ attack

I am deliberately juxtaposing this post to the last. This post is UIL for it contains much of our dear SingingCleaningGirl.

So last night, while I was roleplaying and Noah was sleeping, poor Carl got the stomach flu. And this morning it seems like Noah might have it too (milder so far, just loose at the other end).

So of course I sat down to type after cleaning out and disinfecting my fridge top to bottom, and I will be attacking the bathrooms next (which is normal weekend procedure anyway, this last).

Because, of course, if there is a flu within 1,000 square metres of my home, it must be my fault. As the eldest daughter of a germaphobic mother, I grew up believing that I was the sole tracker-in of germs to the family home and since I was, from the age of about 6, given water with bleach in it and rubber gloves and rags to wipe down everywhere I touched whenever I was sick, my first reaction is always that it’s some horrendous bacteria that Only I Could Have Prevented, Were I Not So Lazy.

And, to be fair, Noah had the stomach flu two weeks ago, or at least he threw up once (I actually think he may be allergic to soy). So perhaps there is a germ colony floating around in the house somewhere.

[One thing I did realize: last year, Noah's first year in daycare, the inside of my fridge was disinfected about every two weeks. This year it's either been back to the usual quarterly schedule or at least, much less commonly than every other week. So if you are suffering the first year of school or daycare, it does get better.]

Anyways, I wanted to post not only because I’m about to try to figure cleaning out better, particularly where preschooler variables exist, but also because I am struggling a little with the message I’m giving here.

The truth is that I don’t think I could not go at the fridge/laundry/doorhandles/etc. It’s not so much that I think I’m unequivocably right, as that it’s seriously less effort to do it — and I mean, it’s something that would happen in due course anyway — than it is to talk myself down off the ledge of wondering if the meat I defrosted on Thursday might have somehow escaped the plate under it, invisibly, to breed a dread disease that Noah stuck his finger in. Might as well just haul the shelf out and wash it.

But I don’t want Noah to grow up feeling so – guilty and neurotic about it. Just because I am at peace with that bit of neuroticism, doesn’t mean I want to pass it on. Yet I know I’m modelling it. And I know I am because I muttered to myself, as we went downstairs, “Oh I’d better clean the downstairs bathroom,” and Noah said why and I was overly sharing and said “so we clean the germs out” and then Noah WOULD NOT PEE THERE until I did. So yes, that’s my neurotic stuff.

So how to approach with the babe?