A Pox on Your Firstborn

Way back when I dreaded the thought of having a child, I had a long list of specific things I really wasn't interested in going through. Changing diapers, for example. Or teething (which turned out to be as bad as I feared - if kids knew how hard they had to work to make teeth, they would brush them so compulsively that the combination of bristle and paste would rub those pearly whites down to little nubs).

Another item on my "things to fear" list was the chicken pox. So when Chris called me at work four days before we were supposed to fly to Arizona for spring break, I thought we were in for a doozy of a week. I imagined poor Wrig, hands covered in mittens that were wrapped in adhesive tape which was covered with socks, desperately pawing at her relentlessly itching body. I imagined her covered with constellations of red scabs (oh look! There's the big dipper!). I imagined canceling our spring break trip and breaking my parents' hearts.

Turns out, Wrig had the mildest case of chicken pox ever (Chris gives all the credit to extended breast feeding. Three cheers for Mommy's antibodies!) . Two sleepless nights. An afternoon of itching. The highlight of the whole experience was coming home one afternoon to discover Wrigley rubbing up against our 5 foot tall cat tree, scratching her kiester like a bear in the woods. A priceless picture!

Now, with the chicken pox off my list, there's hardly anything left to dread about child rearing at all! Except ...