He can smell germs.

It all started three weeks ago at a soccer game. He kept running off the field and pointing to a spot on his arm where a female opponent had touched him. He wasn't consoled until we rinsed it off with his water bottle. He was back in the game . . . until the next germy teammate made the mistake of brushing up against him.

"Is he becoming obsessive compulsive?" I asked worriedly as the water bottle began to run low.

He sniffs his forearms and his hands constantly in search of germs. He can smell them, sure as day. He knows when they've attached themselves to him and he immediately makes a beeline for the guest bathroom. All is remedied with Bath and Body Works antibacterial soap from a pump. He holds them up proudly for me to smell. I accidently brush them with my nose and the process starts all over again.

"I can't do obsessive compulsive hand washing," I tell myself. We've survived high pitched screaming, the licking of hands, flying down the stairs head first, the grinding of teeth, but not this. I draw the line at this.

His hands are dry and cracking. I smear lotion on them, only to create a washing frenzy.

It turns out, Nick really can smell germs. We've got them in our house right now. Tons of them. They have taken down five out of the six of us, but not Nick. Not "wash your hands a 109 times a day" Nick.

This morning he ate 7 pieces of french toast, washed his hands with "Tropical Passionfruit", pulled on his backpack and happily waved goodbye to his pajama clad, sneezy, coughy family.

Maybe I can do obsessive compulsive hand washing . . . but only for the winter, mind you. And then please, kindly choose a new one.