Journal of the preschool plague year

One of my favorite lines in the modern cinematic classic Incredibles 2 comes courtesy of fashion designer and maker of exclusive superhero costumes, Edna Mode, “Done properly, parenting is a heroic act. Done properly. I am fortunate it has never afflicted me.”

I’ve been thinking about this line because for the past couple of days, we’ve watched entirely too much television as I struggled to juggle work, a sick child and a sick husband. I don’t feel like a hero. I’m pretty sure I’m not doing any of this parenting stuff properly. It feels like all hell has broken loose and my toddler is just our roommate now. A small, snotty, adorable, popsicle-addicted roommate.

My house has been struck with I’ve been referring to as “the preschool plague.”

I’ve experienced this plague once before, back in my early twenties, when I was living with my sister and her toddler. He had just started daycare and got a stomach bug. It was his first time suffering from one and it was terrifying — like a scene from The Exorcist. Then it hit me and my sister. I’ve never been so sick in my entire life. Not to get too graphic — but for two days it felt like I was a towel being wrung out. By the end of those forty-eight hours we felt too weak to turn a doorknob. We still talk about how unwell we were more than twenty years later.

The super-viruses incubated in preschools and daycares are the stuff of legend, and this cold my daughter brought home is no exception. We are heading into week three. We’ve gone through countless boxes of tissues. It’s astonishing how much snot such a small creature can produce. My husband got the super-cold and it went into his head and then turned into a debilitating ear infection that landed him in urgent care on his fiftieth birthday, of all days, affirming our constant refrain that parenting is a young person’s game.

My daughter has been home for the majority of her life and she was also breastfed until she was two-and-a-half, so whenever she got sick in the past, even with Covid, she was getting antibodies often before anyone was even showing symptoms of being sick. That’s how smart and miraculous mommy’s milk is.

But it was high time to leave the nest and the teat. I knew that on day four of preschool when we went to pick her up; two of the kids were coughing and another one was wiping snot on her sleeve. We were in for it. We got whacked the week before Thanksgiving. It seemed like by the time Thanksgiving came — I hosted because I’m a crazy person — we were all on the mend. That Saturday we went to a farm to see animatronic dinosaurs. A fatal mistake. I thought fresh air would do us good. It kicked our butts. My husband ran a fever that night. By Monday I made him go to urgent care. The child’s eyes were now running as well as her nose.

“How are you doing?” my cousin asked.

“I have no idea,” I said. “I don’t even have time to think about it.”

I don’t know how parents do it. And I’m a parent. But I only have one kid. How an one does this with more than one and no full-time help — like nannies — is beyond me. Truly heroic.

My husband texted me while I was in the middle of the nightly negotiations at bedtime. Our new ritual. Me going through the bedtime routine and her asking for one more story, a glass of milk, “Oh wait, I’m hungry,” a specific stuffed animal that we can’t find, another hug.

“She’s the perfect tyrant. She gives just enough carrot to keep us from murdering her while extracting everything she possibly can.”

Last night she woke up and was inconsolable. For whatever reason, who knows. So I picked her up out of her crib and brought her to the rocking chair, a place we have spent countless hours together and which she has refused for many, many months now. Another new experience for me. The constant grief as you say goodbye to one phase only for it to be replaced by a new, cool one. The blossoming of personhood.

She didn’t refuse. She passed out instantly, snoring through her crusty, snot-filled nose. She’s so big now, almost a little kid. I stared at her angelic face, a favorite pastime.

I gazed at the scene in front of me, one I’ve also stared at hundreds of times, late at night, early in the morning, sleep-deprived. And yet it’s been so long since I’ve sat in that chair. Her crib. A portrait of our late dog Hope that her grandma drew for us, watching over her nursery. The side table with the nightlight. A small chair her aunt got her with her name embroidered on it. The personalized wooden growth chart her cousins gave her. The stuffed animals all lined up in the corner. Her favorite soft blankie from her grandmother Amie, draped over the crib.

A place where I’ve never been so content. I’m not sure I’m doing it properly, but I’m grateful beyond measure that parenthood — with all of its complementary viruses — has afflicted me.

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s January 2025 World edition.