My last post was about what a big baby I am.  And the shock I was in about what a big baby I am.  And how I was a bit pissed about what a big baby I am.  Or should I write, what a big baby I was.  I am no longer a baby.  Baby begone!  No more babies in our home!  They left years ago.  (And they are only coming back by way of extended family and friends.  Appendix: see earlier posts re: me, pregnant=Armageddon or Divorce.  One in the same to me, b/c if Tom and the kids left me, my world would be O. V. E. R. )

Anyway, I am better now.  I wouldn’t say all better, because I don’t feel 100%.  But, I don’t feel like I have to stay in bed, or go back to bed, at least until it is my official bed time.  I don’t feel like I need to whine and moan to ease and calm myself,  I don’t need to ask someone else to get me food, drink, or warm blanket.  I am self-sufficient.  Again!  Thank goodness.  Because as nice as it is to have a day off, it is more annoying and depressing to be helpless. 

How do they do it?  Men I mean.  I didn’t come up with what I am about to write about on my own.  So don’t write ME the hate letters.  I got it from fellow wives and girlfriends and the talk radio show last week.  I couldn’t possibly come up with it myself because Tom doesn’t behave this way.  He wasn’t babied and coddled when he got sick.  The way he described it, “rub some dirt on it” was the best way to get better in his home.  He is the youngest of five Irish boys, all born in a matter of 7.5 years.  Not any one of them is more than two years apart, and it’s more like 18 or 9 months apart.  So if you sure as hell want to get the shit get kicked out of you or get teased like you’re the girl in that family, it’s not mearly get sick, it’s ACT SICK.

However, I have found it almost universal at play groups that woman will speak of their husbands with almost disdain, “He is so pathetic.  Our four year old can handle a fever better than he can.”  And on it goes, because where one woman finds solace in venting, oh you better believe another will find even more comfort in comradery.  “You think you have it bad, when my husband so much as gets a cough, he then gets anticipatory grief as if he has a terminal illness and we should all prepare for the end.  He makes eye contact with me, as if to say, ‘I love you.  You’re my hero.  The documents are filed neatly in the home office, call Dr. Kevorkian just to make it easier on everyone else, not me.  Especially you, you deserve it.’  I swear if I didn’t know him better I would have thought he was in the High School Drama club and gay.  You guys don’t think he is gay DO YOU!?”  And then thank goodness the topic at play group can turn to something else, and we can divert Mary, all in harmony, “Oh no, NO, No, no, Don’t be so silly!  He’s so tough, and handsome, and……ya know….cough….tough.  Who’s going to Jane’s pot luck on Sunday?” 

And thank goodness we have each other.  Women.  Because, not only do our husbands get sick.  We get sick.  Our kids get sick.  And we get sick of our husbands, our kids, and ourselves.  And who would we turn to if we didn’t have our girlfriends.  And what would we turn to each other about if we didn’t love our children and our husbands so freakin’ much?

This blog is dedicated to my best girlfriends, our best kids, and my best friend.  With out each of you, I would not be so sick(ly) & happy.