I saw my mother-in-law standing over my sons who were lying down on the old living room couch, and she was wiping their noses with a tissue. A tissue that she had JUST used on herself moments before. My stomach dropped. I stood frozen in the doorway, watching as she coughed into her hand and then immediately reached over to adjust my youngest son’s blanket, touching his face in the process. “Oh, hello dear,” she said cheerfully when she noticed me, completely oblivious to my expression. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon!” I forced a smile and asked casually, “Are you feeling okay, Mom?” She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, just a little cold. Nothing serious. Your boys and I have been having such a wonderful time together.
We’ve been cuddled up all morning watching movies.” That’s when it hit me like a ton of bricks. Every single visit, she was sick. And every single time, within days of returning home, my kids would develop the exact same illness she had. I realized she had been inadvertently—or maybe not even realizing it—sharing her germs directly with them. The hand-to-face contact, the shared blankets, the close proximity while she was symptomatic. She wasn’t trying to hurt them. She loved them dearly. But her complete lack of awareness about hygiene and illness transmission had been making my children sick, over and over again. I felt my anger rising, but I also knew this conversation was going to be delicate. How do you tell your mother-in-law that her love and affection are literally making your kids ill?
I sat in my car for ten minutes before going back inside, taking deep breaths, trying to calm the anger that was roiling through me. My children had been sick repeatedly, missed school, suffered through fevers and coughs and bronchitis, and the entire time the cause had been sitting right in front of me—or rather, sitting right in front of them at my mother-in-law’s house.
But I also understood that Margaret, my mother-in-law, wasn’t deliberately trying to hurt my children. She loved them fiercely, had always been generous with her time and affection, had never shown anything but genuine care for their wellbeing. This wasn’t malice. This was ignorance combined with a generational attitude about illness that treated colds and minor infections as insignificant, something to be powered through rather than something to be careful about spreading. I walked back into the house and asked Margaret if we could talk privately for a moment. She followed me into the kitchen, her expression shifting from cheerful to concerned as she sensed that something was wrong.
I took a breath and chose my words carefully, understanding that this conversation needed to inform her without shaming her, needed to establish boundaries without damaging the relationship. “Margaret, I need to talk to you about something important,” I began, my voice steady. “I’ve noticed that every single time the boys come home from visiting you, they get sick. Every single visit. And today I came back and I saw you wiping their noses with a tissue you had just used, and then touching their faces. I also saw that you’re currently sick yourself.” Margaret’s face flushed, and I could see the realization beginning to dawn on her. “I’m not saying this to hurt you or to blame you,” I continued. “I know you love the boys more than anything. But I need you to understand that when you’re sick and you’re in close contact with them, sharing tissues, sharing blankets, touching their faces, you’re transferring your illness directly to them.