A rchive Date
[ 11-06-2000 ]
Category
[ International Relations ]
sub-Categoy
[ Mass Media ]
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[There's no escaping germs
By PATSY HOGG
Some of you ladies may have spied me in a public restroom here in Houston. I'm the one entering that dreaded facility, tissue in hand, committed to navigating the entire process without once touching a surface. Yes, I am - or was - a germophobe. Germophobes never consider themselves odd. We find it strange that the rest of you seem oblivious to the germs lurking EVERYWHERE.
I am now a REFORMED germophobe because of two little girls - Madison, 3 years old, and her 21-month-old sister, Logan - my grandchildren. When I was raising their mother, Jennifer, and their uncle, Andrew, I rarely lost ground in my war against germs. The first clue that I might be an older, less energetic soldier with grandchildren came three months ago in Galveston.
Madison, newly potty-trained, expressed her need to "go" as we drove toward our restaurant. No problem; we were on the Strand, so my husband let us out where I knew there was a well-kept public restroom. But I was mistaken about the location - the "potty" was in the NEXT block. Again, no problem; Madison seemed up to the walk.
As we arrived at our destination, I naturally began to "gift-wrap" the feared public toilet seat. The task was near completion when a frantic little voice called my name. I turned to look at Madison - nothing to see except a strange expression - but I did HEAR something. ... A splash. ... No problem, I assured her - Moppy's fault, not hers. (Yes, we're "Poppy" and "Moppy.")
But now Moppy had a problem: Madison's wet panties. A quick walk down the Strand confirmed my worst fears: You can buy T-shirts, coffee beans and glassware, but NO tiny panties. So the germophobe accepted the unacceptable: "air-dry" the panties and go on to dinner.
The incident was the beginning of my transformation. The conclusion took place at the playground of our local fast-food hamburger franchise - a place I wouldn't take the girls because it is, to a germophobe, the mother of all germ-breeding facilities. I wouldn't, that is, until one recent evening. ...
The day started fine. Poppy, always great with the girls, would not be available, but surely I could handle two small children for a day. However, one look at Madison's face as she came down the stairs told me things would not go as usual. I felt her forehead and estimated 102.5. My doctor agreed to see her immediately.
I set her up on the examining table, my arm around her, and as the doctor greeted Madison, her response was a sudden deposit of her stomach contents on all of us. The doctor quickened his diagnosis, and we returned home. As I expected, Madison slept. Wanting to keep an eye on her, I laid her on the den floor with pillow and blanket. Did I mention that my carpet is off-white?
As I walked to the closet to change my stained shirt, from the den came that familiar sound heard in the doctor's office. I rushed back to Madison, picked her up, and she completed upheaval No. 2. While some of the contents again hit my shirt, most fell to the carpet. Did I mention that Madison's primary intake had been red fruit drink?
There was one more episode - again, my shirt, the carpet. Hours later, I was still wearing the same blouse. It seemed I was either scrubbing red food dye from white carpet or cleaning up Madison, holding her or dealing with her or dealing with her high-energy little sister. Madison's fever disappeared (never to return), and likewise her lethargy. While my energy level was at zero, the two girls were ready to play.
As I tried to think of things to keep the girls occupied, the nearby burger place kept coming to mind. It was enticing. ... I could sit. ... They could play. ... They weren't dressed. ... Upstairs were clean clothes, shoes and hair bows. But "upstairs" seemed far away for a very tired Moppy. Did I mention that my daughter designs, among other things, children's jewelry and hair bows and that the girls are NEVER without big bows and matching outfits?
But this was an evening of new beginnings. Shortly, those two were strapped into their car seats with no bows, no shoes - and NOTHING matched. I, in the same disgusting shirt, was not thinking "germs"; I was thinking "relief." And the final cure for my germophobia was about to take place.
I walked the girls through the eating area to the play equipment, too tired to care if someone I knew saw our pathetic little band. (Did I mention that I had rushed Madison to the doctor that morning before brushing my teeth or putting on makeup?) The girls happily scrambled over the playground. For me, it was bliss to just sit. But I knew the next phase of this outing would be food. Since I could keep an eye on the girls from the counter, I told them I'd place our order and be right back.
As I was returning to the play area, I saw that Logan was standing still, facing me, grinning from ear to ear - literally - because there was something in her mouth forcing the corners of her lips far apart and protruding through her happy smile. It was a dark something. I felt sick at the possibilities.
As I walked faster, I saw something yellow on the dark object. Stomach turning, feet now running, I reached her to see that she had stuffed into her mouth at least half of a cheeseburger patty, apparently rejected by a previous patron. Before that day, my fingers would have flown through her mouth, flinging her off-the-floor treat skyward. But I just looked at her.
She continued to grin - she didn't chew, she just grinned at me. I sat down. She slowly began to chew, eyeing me, not believing her freedom, relishing every bite. I felt almost euphoric; I felt happy for her. What germs? My order was called. I picked up our tray, and as I returned to the play area, I saw that Logan once again was standing still, facing me, gleeful.
Again, something was in her mouth, and something was also in her hand. I didn't move any faster this time. As I reached her, I saw that she had merely finished the meal rejected by that prior customer; those french fries on the ground were far tastier than the ones I had just purchased. I know that because she never touched the ones I brought her.
I sat there, peaceful and relaxed, watching the girls play. I did not contemplate how much residue from leaky noses and unwashed hands had been left on the play equipment by other children. I did not wonder if those other kids had a Moppy who daily disinfected their toilet seats. I was just happy to be sitting still. ... The girls cleaned up nicely in a warm bath at home. And after they were in bed, I felt no compulsion to go out to the car, armed with spray disinfectant, to slay all those germs that surely lurked on their car seats.
... I'm CURED.
 World Fact Book (CIA)]
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