So you guys, Phillip was away for two weeks. Sure, he came home on the weekend, but let's face it, that doesn't count. TWO WEEKS. In that time I was 1) pregnant 2) answering the beck and call of two small people 3) packing up half my house for our impending move 4) fielding phone calls from real estate agents wanting to bring clients to see my rental house and 5) SICK. Every night I threw myself into bed as soon as I was sure the kids were asleep, a box of Kleenex perched on Phillip's pillow. Fun times!
Then Phillip came home. I was still sick. Perhaps I was a tiny bit MORE sick, perhaps because I could finally just BE sick instead of doing everything else. I napped, I drank my orange juice, and by Easter Sunday I was feeling a smidge better. I was looking forward to seeing family and having my OWN family all together.
But guess who got sick then? Oh yes. And not just sick. Sick with a MAN COLD.
"My throat is feeling kinda funny," Phillip informed me. "Gee, I hope I'm not getting sick!"
Except every wife knows what that means. Every wife steels herself against those words, doing her very best to hide the eye roll and swallow the groan. It's not that we're unsympathetic slavedrivers, it's not that we don't BELIEVE our husbands, it just means we'll be dealing with everything else plus A Man Cold, and honestly? We don't have time for that.
Phillip did his spousely duty and spent Easter brunch chatting with my ginormous family, but when everyone had left and it was time to put the two-year-old down for her nap, he napped too. Later when I went to check on them, both Phillip and Molly were curled up in the twin bed, snoring.
At that point it was fine. "Cute!" I thought.
But then he woke up. And he had a headache. And chills. And probably a fever. My six-foot-two husband was curled in the fetal position on the guest bed, shivering under one of my mother's throw blankets. "I'll be fine," he assured me, his voice weak and frail.
Because 1) he really was sick and 2) we've had more than a few arguments on the subject, I think I did a fairly good job of poor babying my husband. After all, I hadn't seen him in two weeks. However. HOWEVER. It did cross my mind once or twice that at no point in the past two weeks, when I had ALSO been sick, did I get to lie down and shiver and be babied. And MAYBE I might have stood over his sickbed, my hand on his clammy forehead thinking, "Well, so much for MY runny nose."
It's not that we don't think you're faking it, Husbands, or that we're unfeeling hags. It's just that we're probably not feeling so hot either, but we manage to get the kids breakfast anyway. AHEM.
... I only got to complain about The Man Cold on the condition that Phillip had an opportunity to defend himself in print. (And OMG he has been sitting right next to me this whole time doing Man Cold RESEARCH. GAH!)
So lest I box myself into a giant internet corner, I'm going to do my best to describe the vicious epidemic of the man cold. Your average man is like a formula 1 race car. We run 110% at top speeds (except for sitting on the couch. That's like a pit stop.) When a cold hits us it's like turning that well oiled formula 1 race car into an old Geo Metro. This is soooooo devastating to the male psyche that all we can do is sit on the couch and shiver. Look it up, there are many takes on the Man Cold (check out this article). However, I perfer this depiction of the Man Cold best because, while it's a horrible ordeal that everyone should pity, it's still really funny.