During tonight’s wrestlin wranglin bedtime rodeo, the man-cold pops in to inquire politely if I might care to squeeze some oranges for its parched throat.

I wish I could say that I responded with all (as Mom would say) sweetness and light, but that’s not exactly how it went down.

I actually said nothing, as I held one slippery eel kid down with my knee and tossed pillows at the other one to slow his accelerating loping across the kitchen.  I’ve learned to say nothing at first.


We’ve already gotten scientific proof that when we both had colds a few weeks ago (or forever), I had to get giant stupendous antibiotics for mine, yet his complaints were 10 times what mine were.

He says it’s therapy, to groan like that.  I say go for the in-patient care and move directly to the hospital.  I don’t.  Really.  I say nothing at all.