Small Bum has tonsilitis. The world has come to an end.
No but seriously. It is when they are sick that all men turn into the same thing. Babies.
Make no mistake, I love babying my boyfriend's when they are ill. Wiping the fever from their forehead, feeding them chicken soup, going out to the chemist to get them antibiotics. But this caring nature of mine is shortlived, if not fickle. Because three days later, I'm bored with the whole whining and pitiful performance.
In first year varsity, when Ex S and I were in res, he contracted an untimely case of glandular fever. I offered to walk to town and buy him stuff. Only, after walking there and back, in the hot sun, I realised I'd forgotten the fucking juice he'd asked for.
"What? You forgot...the juice?" This was a crisis like no other.
"Well," he croaks, with a pained expression across his face, and using an over-exaggerated whisper: "I'll...just...have...to...get...it...myself." While attempting to lift his body off the bed, in a melodramatic gesture, only to flop down again.
"I'm just too...weak."
It was so overplayed and so well executed, I still credit him for Best Baby Story. I ended up having to walk down to the shops again.
Small Bum holds his own as well. Not as melodramatic, sure, but perhaps a snitch more demanding in a physical-affection sense. "Stroke my hair." Or "Can I nestle my [weary] head in your bosom?" And when I ask him if he's feeling any better, especially since he's been on antibiotics for three days: "No. Not better at all."
Not even slightly better?
"No. I think I'm actually getting worse. I have a cough now."
"I think..I'm dying."
Oh. My. God.
Get better already! The week has been long, the weekend is almost upon us, it will be filled with boozy days and boozy nights, it's been ages since I've been severly ratfaced, this is not the time for snivelling and carrying on! Although I do like stroking his hair.