When my children were younger and succumbed to winter colds and flu, it would break my heart to hear them with their croupy coughs and tired, ear-infection cries.
I would bundle them in warm blankets, buffering them with fluffy pillows and their favorite comfort toys. Cartoons would run on a continuous loop while they were awake. I would forego my own basic needs to hold them close until they would finally, sleep-deprived and miserable, fall into an uneasy slumber.
Then there is their father…
A man who disdainfully shuns modern medical technology. Who would have to have a dead, plague-blackened rat hanging from his gangrenous arm before he would do anything other than slather it with Neosporin™ and bandages. A man who is also the world’s worst Man Cold sufferer… no, scratch that. When he has a Man Cold…. I am the sufferer.
No matter the level of his sickness, he would have me believe that he is near death’s door, incapable of doing simple tasks. Reaching across the couch for the remote, walking ten feet into the kitchen for a glass of water, or tucking blankets around his own feverish legs would be beyond what his ailing body can accomplish.
More needy than any child.
Heaven help me if I run out of Jolly Ranchers and Gatorade.