There’s a reason Madison Avenue coined the phrase “Dr. Mom.” As soon as you become a mother, you get a crash course in pediatrics. Most of us have seen it all: ear infections, common colds, the occasional broken bone, conjunctivitis. As soon as you send your little one off to daycare, not only does he or she pick up bugs, but they spread them around to the whole family.

Of course, some mothers have a much heavier load with children facing chronic illness, and I admire their faith, love, and resilience. For most of us, sick days simply come with the territory and — thank heavens — they don’t require much more than some chicken soup and an afternoon or two on the couch with cartoons or Gossip Girl, depending on the age. Generally speaking, it’s nothing to worry about and perfectly normal.

But, things are definitely not normal, perfectly or otherwise.

The other day, I heard what no parent wants to hear right now. “Mom, I don’t feel well. I think I have a fever.”

Those are the words my 16-year old daughter uttered as she walked in the door from softball practice. A quick temperature check confirmed what we already knew; she had a fever of 102. On any other day, in any other year, that temperature, although high, wouldn’t have been cause for alarm. We would have given her some Tylenol and fluids and sent her to bed to rest.

But this wasn’t any other day in any other year.

This is the era of COVID. Now, those with fevers are quarantined, viewed as pariahs for managing to get themselves infected, and subsequently struggle with the guilt associated with (potentially) being “positive.”

Her temperature stayed high. As we waited in the car at the drive-up testing facility for the nurse, covered head-to-toe in PPE, to come swab our noses, my feverish daughter berated herself. She alternated between worrying about her own health (“Will I die? Have I just killed myself?”) to practically hyperventilating at the thought of inadvertently killing someone’s grandmother because she had a “socially distanced” lunch with a friend who lives with her extended, immunocompromised family.

That’s a really heavy weight for a 16-year old to carry. I don’t care how strong she is.

But is this what it takes to get the younger generation to truly understand the magnitude of their decisions? The importance of not becoming complacent? Data show that half (if not more) of recent COVID cases are detected in adults 35 years and younger. And the number of positive tests coming back from places like Florida, Texas, California, and other “outbreak” states shows that not only can young adults get and spread the virus, but they are not immune to the severity of the illness as we all initially thought. My young cousin in Texas, who is the same age as my daughter, has been battling the virus for more than a week at this writing. It struck her hard — respiratory symptoms, body pain, nausea — the full gamut. She caught the virus at camp where social distancing and mask wearing were almost non-existent. I pray for her full recovery.

By the way, the irony of our predicament is not lost on me; I’ve been on a soapbox with my immediate family, espousing the importance of heeding guidance from experts like Dr. Fauci and our own state epidemiologists, virologists, and doctors. Our family has been careful. We’ve worked and studied from home. We social distance. We wear masks wherever we go. We have hand sanitizer at the ready. And, we eschew indoor restaurants in favor of outdoor seating on the rare occasions we do go out now that our state has started to reopen. And yet, here we are.

On the one hand, it seemed almost inconceivable that any of us could be infected. On the other, it drove home the fact that this virus is still very much a threat to all of us. It drove that home hard.

Has my daughter been perfect? Absolutely not. She’s been physically closer to friends than I would like and still does the “outfield dance” with her fellow teammates during every softball game. But, she does wear a mask and gloves to work every day and takes far more precautions than many of the other young people I see her age.

As we anxiously waited for our test results, I had time to reflect. This must — will — serve as a cautionary tale because this virus is not to be trifled with. It offers no grace period nor do-over. And should you hug your friend whom you haven’t seen in months, you must remember that you are deep into “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon” territory. You’re not just hugging one person; you’re now exposed to whatever your friend’s mother’s nephew caught while having a beer or two at the local pub with twenty of his closest friends, one of whom was an asymptomatic spreader.

Our tests came back negative, and the sense of relief was immeasurable. But, so was the memory of the almost unbearable fear and anxiety we had felt only hours before.

I wouldn’t wish the three days I’ve just spent (or my daughter just spent) on anyone.

So, I leave you with one final thought: “Wear the damn mask, people.”