My sweet, sweet Mia. Like her big sister Masan did at her age, she actively and exuberantly explores her world through her sense of taste. With her tongue she explores rusty, forgotten closet locks she finds in the drawer, a guest’s weathered flip flop sitting by the front door, and what she describes as “spicy” Indian food from her favorite dinner plate—the front porch floor. Everything and anything goes into her mouth.

If Mia had been the first born I would not be able to live in Bangalore. When both Masan and Evie were toddlers I used an extraordinary amount of caution when it came to Brooklyn germs. We sanitized hands and feet every time we were done playing on the playground, washed our hands when we returned home from being outside even for a second, changed clothes after going to the baby gym, washed Crocs in Clorox once a week, and forbid playing in the sand at Cobble Hill Park after hearing rumors of rats using it after hours. Fortunately, for my kids and my sanity, I have become a bit more relaxed about germs with the third kid. For example, I didn’t change Mia’s clothes when she came home from school (unless she was going to take a nap). Before we left the US, I was about as relaxed about germs as one with OCD can be.

However, I can feel the OCD rearing it’s ugly head as I try to do battle with the real germs in this town. Trying to keep my kids germ-free is pretty much impossible. Although there aren’t any shoes in the house (local custom, not my rule) and the floors are cleaned each day, everyone and their mother comes through the front door—from neighbors, to helpers, to delivery people. And each one of them wants to squeeze Mia’s cheeks, and has his/her own individual understanding of and appreciation for hygiene. At a recent doctor’s appointment I mentioned the fact that Mia has been throwing up once every few days, to which the doctor’s response was, “yeah, typhoid is going around like crazy right now.” Typhoid. Okay, got it.

If you happened to read last night’s post, you are familiar with poor Mia’s bout of upset stomach. Well, tonight Mia had an episode which was just as explosive and dramatic, but expressed itself in the opposite manner…errr…direction. Similarly to last night, it was a soapy shower for her, one for myself, a full change of bedding, and an entire bottle of Clorox wipes affair. Poor Love. Although 4 out of 5 of us have had some sort of gastrointestinal issue since landing in this city, Mia has had it the worst. Bangalore laughs in the face of my OCD habits, which kept my kids safe in Brooklyn, but are no match for this place.

I have asked people to use sanitizer before they pick up or touch Mia, but I can’t go around like a first time mom with a newborn spraying it on everyone within a mile radius of her. I’m new here, and I don’t want to be offensive. I have asked the driver Kiran to bring me gallon sized bottles of Purel, which I will display around the villa like expensive antiquities, hoping everyone will get the idea without blatantly calling into question anyone’s hygiene. I did put soap and toilet paper in the staff bathroom (i.e. the extra room off the side of the house that the driver, the maid and the cook are supposed to use, which is just a hole in the floor without running water, which by Brooklyn standards could almost be considered a half bath), and invited everyone to use the one inside the house instead. (Indian friends, I know this is shocking—yes, I am doing this staff thing all wrong, I know, I know, but I’m a dumb American, and it’s for a good cause).

Speaking of being a dumb American, during dinner prep tonight the helpers decided that they wanted to put Jasmine in my hair, like the locals do. While my hair was being braided and prepped for the lovely flowers, I was simultaneously helping Masan do a maze in her activity book and feeding Mia on my lap (we still don’t have any dining chairs). When my attention was brought back to my hair I noticed that there was a dirty comb lying next to my clean hair brush and that the comb was the instrument being used in my hair. AHHHHHH!!!! What do I do? This woman was braiding my hair! How could I ask her to stop using her comb? So I said nothing. And when she left I washed my hair for 15 minutes in scalding water.

I give up. Bangalore wins. My only hope is that my kids and I have immune systems of steal after all this.