MsUrbanDaddy already had it. Mine followed, delayed by 24 hours.
A cough. A deep-barreled buzz for her; a bronchial feather-boa for me.
The cough then migrated into both of our stomachs. That bit doesn’t need regurgitating here.
We both soldiered on. By some interpretations, I made slightly more of a fuss about my soldiering than she did. Whatever.
No doubt about the source of our malaise, though: our no.1 daughter, the angel-faced, cherub-cheeked, sunshine-smiling resident biohazard.
I’ve been ill more times in the last 18 months than in the 10 preceding years. By coincidence, our eldest daughter started nursery about 18 months ago. Might these two facts be linked in some way?
I believed so, once, and it depressed me; what we thought was a nursery actually functioned as a Petri-dish with a buggy park; the microbial smorgasbord she brought home with her offered new contagion weekly, and we were paying a small fortune for the privilege.
But I was wrong. It’s wasn’t the nursery.
I know this because just before No.2 daughter was born, we pulled No.1 out of nursery and guess what?
Not as much – the free playgroups she now attends are, presumably, much smaller Petri-dishes – but sooner or later some brand-new bacillus will come home with her to meet the family.
It’s not the school, or the nursery, or the playgroup; it’s the kids.
I’m glad we’re no longer paying a fee for the introductions though.