Winter is well and truly here. Along with the usual festivities
in the build up to Christmas, it has brought to this house a dose that strikes
fear into the heart of any parent of boys. Man flu has arrived with a bang.
Man-flu is making its presence felt with a
vengeance. Much as I love my darling sons, I’m afraid there are no warriors
among them. My daughter managed to
catch, just a cold - lucky her, but the boys have been struck down so badly with this
cursed dose, that any attempts to encourage movement from their slumped position
on the couch brings about the sort of whines and moans that are associated with
this terrible, prohibitive illness.
According to the six year old, it’s my fault that he’s
sneezing because I gave him peas instead of beans yesterday. I’m also responsible for his teacher having
caught his sneezes because of my insistence that he bring a tissue to school –
apparently the mere sight of it set her off “astishoo-ing”.
I’m trying not to take any of this to heart. Confusion is one of the side effects of this
illness. The three year old, also suffering – and definitely not in silence,
has become confused as to how the sponge ended up down the toilet. The ten year old has no idea why his dirty
socks keep piling up on the floor of his bedroom, even though he DEFINITELY put
them into the wash basket. The seven year old is confused as to how he has
managed to come home in a pair of school shoes that are three sizes too big for
him and have laces – which he can’t even tie! The twelve year old is confused
as to why he must go to the school having sneezed twice at this stage and so
obviously therefore, very much in the throes of it. The one year old is blowing
snot bubbles from his gorgeous button nose at a very impressive rate. He’s not confused at all – he knows he’s miserable
and he’s letting us know all about it.
Begone man-flu– leave my poor boys alone. I’m not sure how
much more of their “suffering” my female self can endure!
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