Influenza B and me

I have a Pinterest board called, “Oooooo pretty things!” It has pictures of antique rings, colorful and sparkly images of far off places and some unbelievably magnificent nature shit – like holy mother of GOD that Mother Nature can really make a miracle, type of shit. I mean look at this

OOOOOO Pretty!

OOOOOO Pretty!

And this

OOOOOOO! I should get a tramp stamp tattoo of this when I feel bettah

OOOOOOO! I should get a tramp stamp tattoo of this when I feel bettah


Now doesn’t this look pretty?

Teeny, tiny, deadly mofo flu virus

Teeny, tiny, deadly mofo flu virus

Well, it may look pretty, but it’s evil – it’s the flu virus. Influenza B. This bastard makes Al queda look like the goddamn Easter Bunny. Influenza is a tiny terrorist. It wants you to know that it will fuck up your way of life and then be rewarded in virus heaven, which is actually here on earth, with millions of flu virgins. This is how the microscopic mayhem maker moves

Bitch cover your pie hole!

Bitch cover your pie hole!

GA-Rooooooooosss. Gross, gross, gross, grossest.

Everyone who is entrusted with the care of others knows that getting sick – any kind of sick – just doesn’t jibe with caregiving. One particular day, when I felt like I had swallowed a flamethrower and it was exploding inside my body, I trudged over to the school to pick up my third grader.

“You look so bad. I mean bad – bad, Mom. Like whoa, it’s scary bad.” My girl informs me.

“ I feel bad. I mean bad – bad, Cate. Like whoa, it’s taking every ounce of energy I have left to move my legs bad.” I replied.

She threw her arms around me and gave me a delicious squeeze. “Poor Mommy!”

Poor Mommy is right! I was sweating and shaking and thinking that the only way I would get any relief from the beating my brains were taking would be decapitation. And limb removal -the legs first please.

It was sweet of my little one to offer me a little sympathy because I knew that the second I told my husband I was feeling bad, he would start rattling off a list of his aches and pains and announce that he was coming down with something as well. At least this is his usual M.O. It’s his way of saying, “Prepare for the man-cold, or flu, or whatever illness you have but worse – much worse and therefore I will be of no assistance to you because no matter what is wrong with you, I will be worse off,” without actually saying it.

It’s sort of the way things go with many married couples. At least it is in my experience and with my circle of friends. I hear the same complaint over and over when it comes to how men deal with illness. Many of them, not all of them, turn into big, fucking whiny sissies. My mom used to say that if my father could grow ovaries and have a period, he would, just so that he could say that his cramps were worse than hers. I think that’s why these types of memes are so popular.

Because he CAN!

Because he CAN!

But you know, my husband stepped up to the plate this time, and I’ll just say it – he earned the right to say that his man card is in tact. He is president of the real man club as far as I’m concerned. I’d laminate the damn card for him at this point because I’m pretty confident that he’s finally got “it.” After over 20 years together, 13 of them with kids in the picture, he acknowledges that when I am sick, I need fucking HELP! That he needs to take one for the team, even if he does have a wee headache or the sniffles. This time around, the big guy came home early from work, made dinner (ordered out), did laundry, and wrangled the kids for me.

He let ME be sick.

Now I know that sounds bizarre. He let me be sick? How does that make sense, right? Nobody lets you be sick, when you are sick, you are sick for god sake! But that’s not often the case for moms. It just isn’t. We have to keep moving, keep caring and cooking and cleaning and making sure everydamnthing that the family needs done gets fucking DONE!


I’m not complaining here, I’m stating a fact. It is a fact that when you are a mother, you either have to be in the hospital or close to it before you are off the hook when it comes to the care and keeping of our Crotchfruit and that is just the way it is.

And it sucks.

But I think that unless you are a single mom or dad dealing with a deadbeat/absent mom or dad, or your spouse is overseas or a quadriplegic or really sick with some chronic shit him/herself, it’s perfectly acceptable to expect help from the person who promised to love you in sickness and in health and really, what better way to express your love for someone than to take care of them when they need you to?

End rant. Drops mic and walks off stage feeling smug and right and validated by my man.

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