July 13, 2025 
by M. Regina Cram
We knew it was going to happen eventually, but did it have to arrive the day I packed for a three-generation trip? Did my husband, Peter, have to come crashing down with it at the same time as our toddler?
It began on a Thursday with tiny specks on 7-year-old Meredith. She often complained she was the only kid in second grade who wasn’t a member of the Chicken Pox Club, so she desperately wanted the spots to be chicken pox.
“It can’t be chicken pox,” I declared, crushing her hopes. “Chicken Pox always starts with a fever.”
I was wrong.
Two hours later, I returned from an evening out with girlfriends. Without looking up, Peter mumbled, “A hundred and two.”
“A hundred and two what?” I asked stupidly.
Mr. Minimalist shot back, “Degrees. Meredith. Chicken pox.”
The next ten days were a blur of oatmeal baths, lotions, and antihistamines. Mind you, I couldn’t shop for any of these remedies because I’d be exposing others to chicken pox. I called in favors from everyone with a pulse.
As Meredith finally emerged from the illness, 9-year-old Skip complained of bug bites. Sure enough, he already had 50 pox and a temperature of 102. It was day 12 since the epidemic began.
That was Monday. On Tuesday, 5-year-old Tierney found three little specks on her belly, quickly followed by a fever. Tuesday evening, my mother arrived for a three-generations trip to Houston we’d been planning for six months. Meredith was so excited that she’d kept a countdown chart on the refrigerator for 117 days.
I scrambled to hire a babysitter who had had chickenpox. Peter had never had it.
Amidst great moaning and many spots, Mom, Meredith, and I departed on Wednesday. That evening, Peter called with the news that 2 ½ year old Torrie had chicken pox.
The following day, Peter left work early because he didn’t feel well. Sure enough, he had chicken pox.
When he arrived home an hour later, the babysitter quit. That left him with three sick kids while battling chicken pox himself. Poor Skip had a whopper case with over 2,500 spots. (Yes, I counted them.) I was 1,800 miles away, fielding calls from miserable children complaining that Daddy didn’t make their PBJs the right way.
The family limped along for four days until my return. That’s when I discovered a scientific fact: chicken pox causes men to lose their sense of humor. I confirmed this with a wicked imitation of Peter moaning, “Ohhhh Reg, I’m dyyyyying,” as I mocked his whopping 17 spots. He did not appreciate my humor.
Gradually, everyone healed. Nevertheless, to this day, Peter will tell you that when the chips were down, I ran away to Texas. I remind him that chicken pox was in our home for 22 days. I was gone for just 4.
Besides, let’s be honest. If you were going to bail on your family, would you really go to Houston? I’m thinking Bermuda sounds like a much better plan.
M. Regina Cram is a published author and parishioner of SS. Isidore and Maria Parish.
