The Greene Crud is no joke

I am optimistic that my household is rid of the Crud, at least for the moment while I write this.

Actually, I’ve been referring to it as the Greene Crud. OK, you have to admit, it’s pretty “catchy.” Did you see what I did there?

The Greene Crud. It’s everywhere.

You see them at the grocery store, touching the buggy with their hands, in the bread aisle breathing their poisonous breath, coughing near the milk. You think to yourself, I don’t need bread this week, or milk.

The flight or fight instinct kicks in and you abandon your buggy in the frozen food section and fast walk to the exit before anyone can corner you into a conversation. I’ve been there.

I’ve started cringing when the doorbell rings. I can’t help but perform a quick assessment of the kid at the door asking if Kid #4 can come out and play. I’m looking for the glassy eyes that accompany fever, the croup or the dried snot on his sleeve. These kids don’t make the cut and are turned away. I shut my door quickly and deadbolt it. But it doesn’t stop it and I’m losing hope.

Took Kid #3 to the clinic where they insisted she wear a paper mask and then handed me a communal pen to sign the privacy waiver that no doubt has been hacked and snotted on by a thousand infectious people.

Seriously, the Greene Crud is no joke.

Kids are dropping like flies in the halls of the schools. The office ladies must be furiously swiveling back and forth in their comfy chairs as the phone rings off the wall. For once, it’s not just MY kids that are calling in.

I went to a basketball game a few weeks ago and saw a kid on the team bench. His knees were actually knocking as he shivered in his uniform. At the end, all the kids walk by and slap hands while forcing the words “good game” out of their mouths between gritted teeth.

With every hand slap that kid made, I was thinking, here’s a little flu for you and you — oh, and you!

I could almost see the transfer of crud crawling from his fingertips onto the next kid.

It was painful to watch. Not nearly as painful as my back after sitting on my 1-by-2-square-inch of fiberglass bleacher with some stranger’s foot kicking me in the rear, but painful nonetheless.

Meanwhile, men are falling like dominoes all over town. The only thing that trumps a house full of whiny, needy, feverish kids is a sick man who thinks he’s saving the world by diluting this plague for all of mankind and suffering loudly from the worst case ever documented.

Thank a man today, if you see one still alive.

As a mother, I have carried on the time-honored traditions of my ancestors by refusing to get sick.

I have cared for others, made soup and served hot tea to the masses that reside in my home.

I have picked up crumpled tissues, fetched blankets and remote controls, administered Tylenol and read every thermometer with genuine sympathy.

Of course, I’m not keeping score or anything, but I think a special someone deserves something extra special for Mother’s Day this year. Hint. Hint.

I heard that there is a fogger truck they use to spray mosquitoes. I’ve never actually seen this mysterious phantom truck in my neighborhood slaying mosquitoes, but they say one exists. Why hasn’t someone armed that thing with gigantic Lysol cans and patrolled the streets, you ask?

Good question.

I think it’s just another Urban Legend.

Spring is almost here. Soon the Greene Crud will be a distant memory, replaced by allergy season.

It can’t come soon enough.
Stefanie Freeman is a Jefferson resident who’s originally an Okie from Muskogee, Oklahoma.
She’s currently serving 18 to life as a mother of four.