When I was 12, my little sister came down with the chicken pox. My mother swore I had them when I was in kindergarten, so she had me help care for my sister.
I distinctly recall, as I was cleaning out the bathtub after yet another oatmeal bath, that I was doomed to catch the darn things. With all the skepticism of the best pre-teen filled with angst, I just was sure she was wrong.
I was right.
Two weeks later, I broke out in one of the all-time worst cases. I had them EVERYWHERE. I mean EVERYWHERE. If you've heard of it, I had them there.
To add to my pain, my then-two-year-old brother, who had one of the mildest cases ever, pranced around the house, lifting up his shirt and proclaiming: See my chickie pox! Come see my chickie pox!!
It is truly amazing that he's alive today.
Two weeks ago today, we had the younger two vaccinated for chicken pox. They've changed the shot formulation, and after this year, I wouldn't be able to get it as a stand-alone. I caved. I'd rather they got it naturally, like our eldest did. But the pharmaceutical companies thwarted me.
Tonight, after our son's bath, my husband called me in. Look at this, he says.
Chickie pox. UGH.
Thank goodness everyone we're supposed to visit over Thanksgiving has already had the darn things.