I feel like I’m about to speak of some mythical happenstance, like it’s an actually thing and not just a person being an idiot. Almost like someone (a man) invented this phrase just so it can be explained in ways that get him off the hook for being a baby.

Like:

Oh Ted? Yeah he’s just acting like a tit cause he’s got that Man Cold.

HA HA poor Bill’s wife has to deal with that Man Cold. Her life is going to be shitty!

Man Cold’s are the worst! Aren’t they Mary? Whoosh, they just transform my Peter into a wee child! (tsk, tsk)

I’m sorry, but it’s dumb. It’s the dumbest dumb saying in the dumb world.

Let me build the experience for you all in what has transpired in our house … in order to do this, I need to go back to last week …

March break good times, no sleep for anyone, lots of drinks in a hotel room on a ski hill, small amounts of sleep, kids flailing everywhere … and then my dad tells me he’s starting chemo in a week.

Whoosh.

There goes fun Kelly, replaced with insomnia ridden Kelly. That’s ok, it happens to me all the time. I mean, I’m a mom, I’m used to not sleeping for the past 6 years. Plus nighttime is when I get my binge reading done. I admit, I don’t have healthy sleep habits on the best of days, I just can’t seem to waste time asleep, I’ve got too much to do. It’s a tic.

Alright, so helllloooo worse insomnia then usual, hangovers subside, and we are getting back into the swing of things by end of March break. But I knew something was going to happen. I looked at Wren before bed and I thought: You’re a little off tonight, I should prepare.

I should have known.

As I am about to have a nice late dinner on Thursday night, my homemade spaghetti plated, red wine in hand, Wren begins to wail like a train. Barf everywhere. I mean EVERYWHERE. She ate macaroni for dinner. Enough said.

Alright, attack mode begins. Wash everything, comfort the kid, back to bed and await the next hurl. It happened a number of times throughout the night, I got up, handled it, and around 3:30 I was able to get to sleep. In the morning Troy asks – did Wren puke again?

HEY GUYS, don’t ever ask your wife, who has gotten up all night, washing vomit off of a comforter 13 times as the washing machine rattles all night long if the kid barfed after you went to sleep at 10:30 only to wake up to your alarm at 6AM. Just don’t. This is life saving advice here people.

So husband trails to work, I parent two kids all day long, bake with them, all seems kosher until I begin to feel a little nauseated at 10PM. I know what’s coming. I KNOW. So I settle into the bathroom, prepare to expel all stomach items and crawl back into bed around 3AM. I think to myself, well it’s ok, the next day is Saturday, Troy is home, I can sleep.

Remember this thought.

Troy does wake up and he does try to be with the kids, but awww the poor guy has the sniffles. The kids yell, he yells back, he stomps around sighing, the kids run into my room a zillion time to ask me if they can do shit. I don’t care, I’m done. I don’t get a – hey honey can I get you water? Can I make you something to eat? Can I do anything for you? Like AT ALL? Nope, finally after a morning of yelling at the kids, he makes them go upstairs, and launches himself next to me to nap as if he has been awake for 3 days cleaning puke, puking himself, or doing any sort of house work that is necessary when you have a flu virus floating through the house. It’s like a contaminant lock down when someone barfs, you need to clean everything for fear that the rest will contract the death puke virus.

As Troy falls fast asleep, it is now that Finn comes back downstairs, cause when did he last actually nap at noon on a Saturday? Well since 2013? Never. I realize I need to get up. Troy is dead to the world (aw poor tired man), so I rise up, clean myself up, clean the house, Wren wakes up too, all kids begin some sort of colouring activity, all is quiet, all is calm. Man cold guy walks out of bedroom 3 hours later with a  sleepy groggy sigh ‘Oh Man was I tired! I just crashed, but my throat is a little sore.’ Like WTF?

Alright so the weekend goes, everyone except man cold guy is ok, less cranky, manageable. Man cold guy still goes to hockey on Sunday, I guess it abated for about 50 minutes before it came back again right after leaving the change room – I’m sure that is a thing right?

So then Dad started chemo like a champ on Monday, he made chemo his bitch, he didn’t feel ill, he sucked it up and went in and just did it. Man cold guy didn’t fare so well.

Monday night, man cold guy went to bed as soon as he got home and asked me to put his pj pants on. Yes, he was in bed and he asked me to get up, get his pants and physically put them on his legs. He then asked for medicine because it was just too much to get up, walk 14 feet to the bathroom to look for some.

I ask: ‘Why didn’t you get that before you came to bed? You were just in the bathroom.’ He replies with an ‘I’m sick honey’ sad pathetic voice that has a hint of a smile, a smidgen of a laugh, like, here it is, it’s my man colds fault I can’t blow my own nose. I’m sorry honey, it’s out of my hands now.

So my response is this… I get the pj pants, I do NOT put them on. I get the medicine so that I don’t have to hear him whine all night. I tell him he was a douche when I was sick. He agrees. And then I silently plot my revenge. My retail revenge. My ‘Hey you’re going to England on Saturday for a week? Guess I’ll just go to West Elm and buy lots of expensive shit while you are gone … no worries, it’s not like you would ever drive to the city to return anything – perish the thought’.

Boom. I win.