It started last week. One Huffman daughter wasn’t doing so great. She was hot. She was cranky. Her back hurt.

I don’t feel good, she said as she flopped on the couch.

I figured with an early dismissal the next day, it was best she just stay home from school. Take it easy, I told her.

At the same time, a bad feeling started to come over me.

Had swine flu just edged its way into the home? Were we under attack? Darn it, only three-fifths of the Huffmans had gotten a seasonal flu shot so far. I was kicking myself for not making the other two-fifths get their shot. Now look at us.

The next day I was at work and Dad monitored sick girl from home. At lunch I checked our invalid. She was still hot. We were out of children’s chewable pain reliever tablets. I begged her to take one adult-sized Motrin. You’re too old for children’s chewables anyway, I said. She resisted and tried to convince me she didn’t need any medicine. After a battle of the wills over pills, she eventually swallowed one tablet. Finally.

But it didn’t end there.

I’m hot, Dad said the next day. I think I have a fever.

I gingerly felt his forehead. Sure enough, hot dad.

At that point I went into biosafety containment mode. I thought of the United States Army Medical Research Institute facility in Reston, Va., where Army medical officers deal with Ebola virus and those crazy monkey fevers. They wear full bodysuits and respirators at USAMRIID. They call it the hot zone. We have a hot zone here, I thought.

At USAMRIID they have clean rooms with air locks between the doors. We needed a clean room. Unfortunately, that was not going to work for the Huffman house. Dinner still needed to be made. Lunches, homework and laundry could not be denied. As much as I wanted to, Mom could not wear a containment suit and mask with oxygen tank around the house.

Instead I tried to fight the germs as best I could. Used tissues were picked up only with a clean tissue. Specific pillows were reserved for specific sick people. I started walking around equipped with a bottle of Windex and paper towels to wipe surfaces and door handles. With every sneeze, I cringed, thinking of the infected particles floating towards us healthy ones.

When one sickie moved from bedroom to living room, I followed in her wake, wiping TV remote controls and night stands. When I saw one get on my computer, I shooed her away to another computer, wiping the keyboard and mouse with more Windex. I even sprayed my hands with Windex.

In further containment efforts, I changed pillow cases and then hid the uncontaminated pillows lest someone breathe all over them before I went to bed.

I washed bedspreads and towels. I scolded those who coughed anywhere else besides in a tissue or elbow. I wiped telephone receivers. I washed my hands, pumping that foaming soap dispenser up and down furiously.

The next night an entirely different Huffman threw up in the middle of the night. Things were going from bad to worse. We’re under attack, I wanted to telegraph. Send reinforcements. Instead I got out a second bottle of Windex.

I headed to the grocery store. We needed provisions. We were out of soup. We needed water. Someone wanted ice cream for a sore throat. Mom needed chocolate. As I wandered the aisles feeling dazed, I ran into Trish, a mom friend. How are you? she asked. I almost gave the usual polite answer. Instead I just gave a big sigh and admitted the truth: We have sickness in the house. Us too, she said with a weak smile. I felt a little better. I wasn’t alone.

As my husband and daughters coughed and sneezed away, my motherly sympathy started turning to panic. I cannot get sick, I thought. If mom gets sick, too, this ship is going down. I briefly thought of abandoning ship for the safety of a fever-free home. Don’t be ridiculous, I said to myself. You can’t just leave half of your sick family to fend for themselves. Right?

The next day, Grandma Sue stopped by unannounced.

Stop right there! I said before she took more than two steps inside. Danger! You don’t want to come in here! She looked at me like I was crazy. Yes, I was trying to kick my own mother out of my house. But it was for her own good.

Get out while you still have your health, Grandma, I said. After a few minutes, she agreed to retreat, but not before I sprayed disinfectant on her hands. Don’t touch anything on your way out, I called after her.

Near the end of the epidemic, I called our pediatrician’s office to report our symptoms. Sounds like you all had the swine flu, said the advice nurse. Nothing you can do about it now, just keep drinking lots of water and get plenty of rest.

After about five days, the girls recovered and returned to school, but there was just one more thing to take care of. I needed to go to the grocery store again. I was out of Windex.

Surrendering to Motherhood appears every other Monday, alternating with Michelle Choat’s Gal on the Go.