I’m sitting upstairs right now and both toddlers are downstairs with my husband and nasty colds. You know what that means? The man flu season is coming. It might not even be the flu, it could just be a cold, but he’ll treat it like the plague because it happens every year like clockwork. Just as sure as the sun rises and sets, I can count on him to be completely useless for a solid week if he so much as sneezes.
Throw it back to 2014. I was about nine weeks pregnant with Cora and Sadie was 6 months old. From the moment I woke up, I was violently puking all day. In the car. Out of the window. During our errands. I was miserable and nauseous but worked through it because #MOMLIFE. I honestly thought I had killer morning sickness or possibly a stomach bug so I went with it. Then 6 p.m. rolls around… it was definitely not morning sickness because I watched my husband transform right before my eyes, stumbling around saying he’s going to puke. Grreeeeeat. The moment he says he’s feeling sick, my eyes automatically roll into the back of my head and touch my spine. Instant dread.
Stage 1: Give this man a chance. Try the sweet approach.
‘Ok babe. You’re going to be fine. Just go to the bathroom and try to relax.’
Did he take my advice? Nope. First stop is our kitchen sink. He pukes all over a week’s worth of dirty dishes. He’s obnoxiously loud when he’s barfing to make sure I know this is the real deal. The neighbors know it’s the real deal. The next town over knows too. Cue me hating my life.
Stage 2: This is the actual worst and I’m going to kill him.
‘Seriously Ty?! Go into the bathroom!! Why would you do that?! It’s like 5 feet away and the garbage can is RIGHT HERE.’
He starts waddling to the bathroom and I breathe a sigh of relief. Thank God he’s in there, maybe he’ll pull it together. PSYCH. He’s being so noisy and dramatic with his heaving that I have no choice but to check on him and pretend I don’t want to murder him. I walk in and encounter vomit. Everywhere. But not in the toilet folks, nawwwww. In the bathtub. The freaking bathtub. BUT. WHY.
Stage 3: There’s no turning back, he’s committed.
He lays on the floor with his eyes closed and starts moaning ‘Syd. Syyydd. I can’t. I can’t see…’
Brain: Oh, so now he can’t see? Is this a joke. He has a flu symptom that doesn’t even exist. Actually, I can’t. I should probably leave. Where is this dude’s mom.
‘What are you even talking about?! That’s not real life!! Open your freaking eyes. We don’t have time for this. GET UP. NOW. RIGHT NOW.’
My voice was really serious at this point. He knew he poked the bear way too hard, or so I thought. He took the alternative route and decided to become unresponsive. Yes. Literally. He played dead like a possum. I’m standing over him about to puke myself and he starts whispering:
‘Syd…Call 911. Syd. I’m dying… call 911. Call 9….1…..1……’
Stage 4: This dude just told me to call 911.
Hold the phone: You want me to dial 9-1-1 and say what? My grown husband has an upset stomach? He stops responding to me AGAIN and mumbles incoherently. He’s rolling around like a pig in his own poop but in his own barf that’s everywhere but the toilet. I [decided] to try and call his bluff.
‘Do you need me to call 911??? We just have the stomach flu and I’M PREGNANT. I’m tired. You’re telling me I am going to pick up the phone and say this is an emergency. You know they’re going to actually come here RIGHT? Right? I’m gonna do it. I’m dead serious.’
He was sick for maybe an hour tops at this point. He’s a first responder. He’s the father of my children. He’s my best friend. He’s a combat vet. He’s a devil dog. He’s a biiiiigg baby. And then I made the dreaded call.
Dispatch: 911 what’s your emergency?