A letter to the squatters in my home

Dear Germs,

I learned in a writing class in college that it’s best to start any letter with a compliment. In the spirit of creative letter-writing, I offer you this; you are indeed very powerful and tenacious. Your patience in waiting until one of my children is well to strike the others is pure evil genius.

I admit you’ve had your run of my house. You’ve had us sleepless with worry, frantically calling in grandparents for help, and constantly doling out money to our family doctor and the Green Oaks 24-hour Walgreens pharmacy. Your presence has led my doctor to make jokes about naming a wing of his office after us. Sure, laugh it up.

I have no doubt you are feeling rather smug about it all. We missed out on working at our church’s pumpkin patch, a fall festival, Trunk-Or-Treat, and Halloween altogether because of you. We missed a Halloween hayride party we go to every year because of you. We narrowly escaped your grasp at Thanksgiving – but were on antibiotics to combat your efforts to infiltrate us again. We missed two Christmas parties because of you. And now, we are manically trying to rid our house of you before Christmas starts in earnest.

I don’t allow the word ‘hate’ in my house, so I’ll say this; I abhor you. I loathe you. I detest you.

However, looking at the future with optimistic hope, I know your presence now almost guarantees my household freedom from your reign later. I know my youngest two boys will have the immune system that resembles Godzilla and your effectiveness will be something akin to Tokyo. You will fight with your armies of germs, but my kids’ adaptive immunity will annihilate you. What, not laughing now? You’ve already lost your hold on Pearce and Cole. You, with all your pathogenic schemes, haven’t been able to penetrate their stronghold of layered defense. It’s called immunological memory, my friend. Pearce and Cole’s bodies see you coming. And they giggle at you. That’s right. You are like a toddler playing Red Rover with the 1985 Chicago Bears* defensive line.

So, please enjoy your time, albeit short-lived, with my youngest two. Because soon, you will be an unpleasant, but distant memory.

Without regard,

Dori

*Anyone over 40 might argue that the 1970s Steel Curtain defense would have been a better example, but I’m a generation younger and the 85 Bears won the Super Bowl, so I ultimately chose them. Oh, and it’s my blog, so there.