There he is, seated on the love-seat next to the kitchen. In his striped onesie. Trying to blow his nose.
"Morning love," I say.
"Borning," he manages. He is adorable.
"You hungry?"
"Yeb, pleebe."
"How about some eggs?"
He nods sadly. "Pleebe." Poor guy looks so exhausted. I know that he didn't sleep well last night. I ruffle his hair.
I make him a fried egg on toast and bring him a glass of O.J. to wash it down.
"You good, love?"
"Yeb. Dank you."
I turn to plate my own breakfast.
"Oh... doh." He sounds like he's about to cry.
"What is it?"
He looks down at the front of his onesie. "I drobbed egg on me."
Sure enough there's a trail of runny yolk down his chest. "It's okay love. I'll get you a cloth." I grab one from the drawer and wet it.
"I'b a toddler," he says as I start to wipe off the yolk.
It is now official. My 46 year-old husband, in his striped onesie, does not have a "Man Cold," he has a "TODDLER COLD."
