I feel like a condemned man. You see, I’ve always been a proponent of the domino theory when it comes to the cold and flu season in our house. As soon as the first one hits, I know it’s only a matter of time.

It didn't take experts to tell me this was going to be one of the worst flu seasons in years. It only took walking through my backdoor after work and noticing a post apocalyptic kitchen with pots steaming on a turned off stove, microwave door wide open, and water running in the sink to tell me something was amiss.

Upstairs lay my wife, pale and pasty and just a bit perturbed that she had been stricken. She told me how she was able to finish cooking dinner between sprints to the bathroom, but she would be staying in bed. All she wanted now was a little quiet and some water.

As I was cleaning up the dinner dishes, I received a text. It was from my wife: water. In serving the kids dinner I had completely forgotten her request, but I could now see how technology had taken us away from the dainty bell used bedside for centuries to beckon aid.

When the alarm beeped the next morning, my wife looked at me with the eyes of a Basset hound and in a faint, gravelly voice uttered, “I can’t do it.”

By “it,” of course, she means everything. My wife is a stay-at-home mother, and, well, they do basically everything.

So I did what any loving husband would do: I called in sick so she could have her own sick day.

I woke my 12 year old son up first because I remembered he had band practice before school and would have to be the first one out of the house.

I then ran downstairs to pack lunches. Peanut butter and jelly all around, a few Fig Newtons, a banana, and a juice pouch for each. Easy as pie.

Then there was breakfast. Piece of cake. Literally. Cake for breakfast makes for happy children. It’s made with milk and eggs. What could be more wholesome?

“What are you doing here?” My son asked as he sat at the kitchen table. I explained to him the situation. After chowing down, I asked my son to wake up his siblings. “And do it nice,” I yelled behind him.

“What are you doing here?” My nine year old son asked as he walked into the kitchen. I began to explain, but as soon as he saw the cake, he stopped listening.

“What are YOU doing here?” My five year old daughter asked a minute later. I was beginning to feel like a real outcast and had to remind my kids that I actually lived there.

Dressing my five year old daughter had its own set of challenges. Asking a Kindergartener what she wants to wear isn't always the best approach. After about ten minutes of window shopping her closet, I pulled out a pair of jeans and a turtleneck.

With the seventh grader picked up, the youngest two boarded the minivan. As I turned around to back out of the driveway, I slammed on the breaks. "Let's give washing your face a second shot," I told my chocolate smeared son.



The moment I pulled up to the school, my son started to jump out. "Whoa, there. How about a kiss goodbye?" He looked at me as if I had lost my mind, chuckled, and off he went.

Standing by the Kindergarten entrance, clusters of mothers eyed me suspiciously. I smiled, but kept a safe distance. When the bell rang my daughter gave me a big hug and kiss goodbye. Thank goodness for the littlest one.

The remainder of the day was filled with some chores, cleaning up around the house, checking in on my wife, making tea, preparing dinner, running kids to activities, and I was even able to get in a little reading.

That evening, with my wife sitting up eating plan toast, my kids filled her in on their day: How the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches had so much jelly that they tasted like doughnuts. How there was no band practice and my son had to sit outside in the cold with his tuba for half an hour. How my daughter’s pants were “the wrong ones.”

And how they really, really hoped she felt better in the morning.