Us women often complain about the Man Cold.
When we get sick, we feel achey and feverish, congested and sniffley, altogether lousy and yet still we manage to forge ahead. The option to call in sick is not there. We pull ourselves from bed, we feed the children, we clean the house, we answer phone calls, we run our errands and we keep our homes from falling apart.
We will ask our husbands for a bit of sympathy, perhaps some help with baths for the kids and they will agree with a huff and a sigh and we might be given a few minutes to collapse on the couch where we will be free to blow our noses in the company of The Real Housewives of Orange County.
When our husbands get sick they fall apart. They stay home from work, they need soup, they need to stay in bed for at least two days in silence with their laptop set up conveniently on their nightstands. They will say things like, “My God! Is this what you felt life?” and they will sniffle and moan and you will play the role of both mom and dad until he’s able to pull himself together.
It’s a pitiful and sad state of affairs when a man comes down with The Man Cold, but one question begs to be answered…at what age do our men officially become pathetic cold carrying delinquents?
The answer. My friends. Has come to surface through careful specimen analysis and I feel confident in sharing with you, that at three years, 6 months, and 19 days The Man Cold officially manifests itself within the mini version of the male species.
My son caught a bug five days ago. What ensued was two days of sad Mini Man Cold lounging and three days of mommy-wanting-candy-needing-tantrum-throwing-sad-boy-snuggling manhoodness.
I love my men. I love them dearly.
But holy sweet mother of God if I live through another Man Cold in this lifetime I deserve to be knighted into the Sainthood. I am now on a mission to keep them as healthy as possible for the rest of their lives.