It has been a harrowing few days with my little sick man. I think we’ve hit about every high and low, far exceeding anything my imagination could even begin to come up with. Being that Jack has been subjected to just about every medication in the pharmaceutical dictionary he has suffered through mood swings comparable to the likes of Joan Crawford and hallucinations worthy of Woodstock. I’ve held him, rocked him, covered him up, uncovered him, put him down, picked him up, read to him, sang to him and cleaned him up. It’s been a tiring experience but very educational in its own right.
Through all of the ups and downs of Jack’s flu experience I came to one very obvious conclusion: men are big weinies.
Jack, with his “man DNA”, reiterated this very fact to me. There is absolutely no doubt that Jack was very, very ill. And I know how badly his little body hurt. But it was his response to it all that initiated him into that male-dominated existence called Wussville.
I mean, we already knew this, right? I doubt there is a woman out there who hasn’t suffered through this injustice and then complained to her girlfriends about it. Our men get a cold and suddenly it’s the very worst cold that has ever infected it’s way across our great land. We couldn’t possibly understand how bad their wittle froats hurt because we quite obviously haven’t experienced anything near to that intensity of pain and discomfort. Even those of us who have passed children through our loins don’t rate.
MEN: Let me quickly say, please do not take offense to my statements in this post. They are factually-based and can be substantiated by many a study and statistic. I think. If I were to take the time to find some. But here”s the deal…own up to the fact that you are horrendously wimpy when you are sick (we all know it) . Either wholeheartedlyembrace this weakness or (wo)man up and fix the thing. That’s all.
My husband has a sick uniform. The minute, and I mean the very minute, that he coughs his first cough or sneezes his first sneeze he changes into his uniform ofsweatpants, hooded sweatshirt and wool socks, shivering and shaking with the frailty of a man afflicted with…the common cold. He takes a steaming hot bath before bed and hunkers down into his covers pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his head determined to “sweat it out.” He swears to me that this method works because he always feels better in the morning. And I’m like, “Yeah, you feel better because you weren’t that sick to begin with and you have a stinkin’ cold, not the Bubonic Plague!”
And in true XY chromosome fashion, my little man did not disappoint. He also wore his sweatpants and socks whileacceptinghis unfortunate fate of “fighting the flu” just like any man…in dire need of sympathy, attention and love from his mommy.I will say though, it’s a hell of a lot more endearing coming from a 3 year-old child than my 35 year-old husband.
Love to all, Mindy