Oscar is fourteen months old today. In the past few days he has switched over completely from crawling to walking. He is in the 90th percentile for length and the 48th for weight, up from the 25th from when he had the endless tummy bug.
"Dr. J.," I said as casually as I could, "How long do pink eye germs live on, say, a toy?"
"Oh, maybe 20 or 30 minutes," he said. "They are not very hardy."
*Registering shock*
"Really?" I said. "So I guess I can stop staring freakishly into Oscar's eyes every morning to see if he got pink eye from, like, a Lego? Because Charlie's been on the meds for like five days now?"
"Oh yeah, you're fine," says Dr. J.
"Hm," I say, beginning to slip out from behind the carefully constructed shield that I wear when pretending to be an even slightly normal human being in front of Dr. J. "So why do the nurses tell me to wash the sheets and spray Lysol everywhere and wipe every surface of my house with Clorox wipes, like, every night during the outbreak?"
And Dr. J. says: "To make you crazy."
And I say: "It worked!"