Apparently, I am disgusting. Which is not something that I knew about myself.
Over the years, my children have educated me in the many ways that I am embarrassing, overbearing, and woefully ill-informed about things that truly matter. Like Clone Wars. And break dancing.
Only recently, though, have I learned that I am also polluted with a particularly aggressive and especially repugnant strain of cootie. For which, naturally, there is no antidote.
It’s the only way to explain why my children — who spent the first years of their lives gleefully gnawing on my fingers — now recoil when I offer them a bite from my fork, insist on fresh straws when I proffer my milkshake, and wipe off their cheeks (oh, no, they di’nt!) after I kiss them.
They don’t see the generosity in these gestures of mine; they see germs. Like I’m spewing deadly pathogens. Like I have a rare strain of parental Ebola that could seriously tweak their weekend plans.
A swipe of my ChapStick? Er, no thanks. A slurp of my ice cream cone? Um, I’ll pass.