Well Norovirus, despite our best efforts, you have managed to infect my 9-month old. We sprayed every knob in the house with Lysol, bleached all of the bedding, sanitized every dish, and yet thanks to you, I found myself stunned and drenched in violently regurgitated applesauce and cottage cheese at 10 a.m. while my little guy writhed in pain on his changing table. Listen to me, Norovirus: you mess with the cub and momma bear will come after you.
I have purchased every bleach-based cleaner in this county, and it’s all meant for you. I have plied my baby with Pedialyte. I have roasted a chicken and made soup. My house has been bathed in a toxic combination or antibacterial, antiviral chemicals worthy of a laboratory clean room. You’re move, Norovirus.
It’s true, you have been busy lately. Not satisfied with cruise ships and nursing homes, you’ve moved on to new hobbies like felling innocent children and sickening what seems like 1/3 of the workforce in Seattle. When I walked into the grocery store this morning I was immediately faced with a giant aisle display of Gatorade, Clorox wipes, and acetaminophen. It was as if the store owners were so worried that infected customers might touch something, they just threw as many vital supplies in the front of the store in a loosely organized pile. One lone checker was on duty, wearing rubber gloves. As I approached her check stand with my shopping cart loaded with electrolyte drinks, bleachy cleaning supplies, and saltine crackers I could see her eyes willing me to go over to the automated checkout and keep my airborne pathogens to myself.
I’m not afraid of you any more, because I know that you time is almost up. After another 12 hours my baby will be completely well and you’ll be gone. I’ll throw open the windows and let fresh, freezing winter air come in so my house will no longer smell like vomit. My little family will finally emerge from our quarantine, immune systems stronger, waistlines slimmer. Now be gone!