Today marks three years of wedded bliss, and of course, I woke up with a nasty cold. Maybe it’s subconscious payback for 2010, when Sam had strep on my birthday–not that I keep track of these things. There used to be a tradition in my family where my brother Patrick or I would run a temperature at an important family event, usually on his birthday (Christmas), sometimes at a wedding or Thanksgiving. Like my mother, Patrick would persevere even with a raging fever. Because I’m an alien child, I don’t leave my sick bed until the bug is gone. In 1999, we created new sickness lore since our epic chicken pox of 1973. My brother and I–adults–were both ill enough to leave my mother’s carefully laid-out Christmas table. My mother did a whole lot of eye-rolling. Good thing she doesn’t know that I’m a little miserable on what is, for me, the happiest day of the year.
Needless to say, I married a prince, the kind who brings you soup and ginger ale and sings silly songs to make you laugh. He’s also able to entertain himself while I stay in zombie-land. It’s humbling to have a spouse who is around for those less than glamorous times. I am very lucky. And then I’ll be the one singing silly songs in July, which is when he usually gets The Plague.