The Man Cold: You're Not Dying!

I am the only female in a house of six, seven if you count the fish, but he doesn't complain much. That means that every year I have to put up with at least one man-cold.  Nothing on this planet tries my patience more.

"I'm hot!" a moan escapes from a mound on the sofa.
"Well, I'm not a doctor, but two shirts, a sweat suit, a blanket, and, wait, are those shoes on my sofa?!? Anyway, I think you're wearing too many layers." I reply.
"I have the flu."
Deep breath, then, "You do not have the flu we got the shot, remember?"
"I have a fever!"
(I'll take their temperature) "It's 97.6."
"Oh my God, I told you!" they'll shriek.

98.6 is normal, no fever.  I just sigh and leave.  I keep a lot of that Emergen-C on hand, mix it with some water, claim it's the new powerful medicine, "it's a liquid so it works faster," and move on.

I make sure we all get flu shots every year.  All of us.  EVERY year. I can't tell you how many times I have to repeat the following phrases:

"You are not dying."

"You do not have Ebola."

"The CDC does not need to be notified."

"You do not have bubonic plague."

"That's not a rash, you do not have smallpox, it's one tiny mosquito bite." (followed by)

"You do not have West Nile Virus."

Sigh.  

As a mom, I have literally suffered through a 104.8 fever with hallucinations of giant dragonflies talking to me.

I was diagnosed with the Spanish flu, that is, after I was well enough to get to the doctor on my own.  I still cooked, did laundry, and any other duties around the house while I was sick.  With the help of that dragonfly, of course!  

Yeah, the same Spanish flu that wiped out 80 million people in 1918. I have no idea how I got that one.  

Point is: I don't have time to get sick, no matter how sick I am, but if one of my guys gets even the sniffles, the world is ending and I better make 20 gallons of homemade soup and a pantry full of Nyquil is required because it lasts for weeks.  

I sure wish I knew how to milk it the way they do, but the one time I actually stayed in bed, the mess that awaited me in the house wasn't worth succumbing to illness again.  

Just how did the peanut butter get on the ceiling fan anyway?  I don't think I want to know.

So like every other mom: I sigh, roll my eyes behind their back, and humor them to the extent my patience allows before kicking them outside so I can clean the mess they've made while suffering from their man-cold...