The battle has begun.
You see, the dreaded sniffly cold has hit my house.
Cass is whistly (haul out the puffers and the mist machine, yo ho ho) and Rosey seems fine but had a croupy cough this morning. Both will be just fine, given a few days and some cough medicine.
My husband, of course, being the bearer of the mutant gene that makes all illnesses on the house rebound off everyone else and land on him full force, is whinging and whining about how horrible he feels, how terrible, how awful.... and yet I can't help but notice how perfectly happy he is to wallow in the recliner, flipping channels with a languid hand.
Flinging germs at everyone right and left, I daresay.
Any attempt to get him to 'go lay down, for godsakes!' is met with a manly sniff and a cough and pronouncement that he is feeling
a little bit better, but still pretty awful.
He may yet be traded in for a newer, more germ-resistant model.
I have the Mommy-gene (it's like a shield. Zing! Off, damn germ! Ching! Off, ribbons of pus!) to protect me.
Mommies are the protectors of the house.
Our plastic likenesses should be sold as action heroes, complete with suitable action attire and deadly weapon.
I have no symptoms of cough or cold. I, alone, will have to man the battlefield with my trusty medicine dropper and tissues, a roll of cough drops jammed in my hip pocket.
But I don't think the towel tied around my shoulders is going to impress any bad guys.
To the trenches!