It was inevitable that I would, as Oscar Wilde quipped, become like my mother. After decades of being told to “Put on more clothes! You’ll catch a cold!” I now, despite knowing better, insist the same for my daughter.
“Another layer!” I demand of my partner, who begrudgingly bundles up a toddler already as puffy as the Michelin Man. The scientifically literate part of my brain understands that no jacket will shield her from the onslaught of daycare viruses. And yet I cling to the conviction that underdressing or stepping out the door with wet hair in winter must be avoided at all costs.
