Dec. 5, 9 p.m.

Beloved:  "Are you feeling any better?"

Me:  "Not really.  My throat still hurts quite a bit."

Beloved:  "It seems like you get sick a lot."

Me:  "Well, the little angel did cough in my face quite a bit this weekend.  Maybe I have more face-to-face contact with her than you do.  Anyway, you don't understand because you never get sick."

Beloved:  "You're right."  (Notice there is no sympathy from beloved anywhere in this conversation.)

Dec. 6, 7 p.m.

Beloved:  "I'm dying.  My head hurts.  My back hurts.  It's so cold in here. Why is it so cold?"  Puts on stocking hat inside house and curls up to the space heater while I attend to the drippy little angel's needs.

Me:  "One will watch one's mouth when one declares that one's wife must be hung-over following Santa Pub Crawl and couldn't possibly actually be sick."

Beloved:  "Oh, God, take me now."

Me:  "Thank goodness YOU didn't have to go to Union Station when you felt like this, hmm?"

Beloved:  "Just give me a gun.  I'm going to put myself out of my misery."

Me:  "Oh, for God's sake. I'll make you some soup."

Dec. 7, 4 a.m.

Little Angel:  Bark, bark, bark. 

Is there a seal in the little angel's room?  I haul myself from bed and check on her.  She's lying in a pool of snot, too tired to move, wracked by coughing.  I pick her up and administer the Benadryl, the OTC cough medicine.  We go downstairs to the couch.

Me:  "The ouchies and coughs will go away now.  Go to sleepy."

LA:  "Mil?"

Me:  "It's a little early for milk now. Let's just sleepy."

LA:  "Mil?  Mil?  Tank two.  TANK TWO.  MIL."

I get her milk. 

LA:  (pointing outside) "Lights!"

Me:  "This is no time for conversation.  Please go to sleepy. Mama is tired."

Dec. 7, 8 a.m. (walk-in pediatrician's office)

Beloved:  "Oh, my aching back."

Me:  "Why did you come with me? I told you to stay in bed if you're going to be sick today."

Beloved:  "I didn't want you to think I'm not helping."

Me:  "Oh, my God. Now I've heard it all."

Doctor:  "Here's some narcotic cough syrup.  Make sure she doesn't operate any heavy machinery while she's taking it."

Me:  "Oh, my God."

Collect drippy angel and whining husband.  Drop off angel at daycare and promise to come back at naptime with cough syrup.  Drop off husband on couch and promise to come back at lunch with soup and orange juice.  Go to work and think about own sore throat.  Thank God men don't have babies.