Big Sick Baby Syndrome: It's real and it's here.

I married the absent-minded professor. He's one of the smartest guys I know and also one of the most forgetful. For instance, he can recite (probably the actual minutes of) in great detail what happened at the Council of Nicaea but his memory on the kids' birth dates is a little fuzzy sometimes.

I'm not kidding, folks.  I am routinely amazed that he showed up on time and dressed for our wedding.  I love him to pieces but I spend 99.9% of my time and energy looking for his car keys, wallet, bus pass, and his other shoe.

If I wasn't around, we wouldn't have kids.  Not because they wouldn't have been born, but they long ago would have been left at a Walmart somewhere to fend for themselves.  (Which still may be their fate, depending on how the Teenage Years work out for us).

He also suffers from what I like to call BSBS or Big Sick Baby Syndrome. 

What exactly is BSBS? This syndrome affects all married man any time they have ANY medical issue.  We're talking common cold, hang nail, headache.  It's symptoms including excessive whining, inability to do any task, big or small, on his own, and long movie marathons that usually include Star Wars, The Bourne Series, or the Lord of the Rings trilogy (all of these are preempted during any sports season).  There's no cure for BSBS.  It will rear its ugly head throughout the life of said husband.  Sadly, wives are the silent sufferers during the active periods of BSBS.

And, friends, BSBS reared it's ugly head this evening.

Husband enters restroom, leaves door open (to make sure all the sound effects are clearly heard), and proceeds to puke his guts out.

He arrives in kitchen and immediately hugs me.  It's unclear if he washed his hands first. 

"I don't feel good," he says weakly, making sure to use puppy dog eyes. He brings my hand to his forehead. "Do I have a fever?"

I choose to not dwell on the whole hand washing issue and ascertain that, no, he does not have a fever.

Husband is not deterred.  "What do you think is wrong with me?" he asks, being sure to use the right amount of worry to provoke a sympathetic response.  He's already lining up the movies in his head.

"Maybe you should go lay down," I say.  Did I mention this is during dinner?  When I am (unsuccessfully) trying to get three kids to SIT and eat and trying to convince the fourth one that a popsicle is not an appropriate meal substitute. I'm also trying to not remember my last pregnancy where I literally spent nine months throwing up.

"Maybe . . . ." Husband says, faintly.  Like maybe he plans on fainting for real. 
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I look at him closely and remember he wasn't feeling badly earlier today. "What did you have to eat recently?" I ask, suspiciously.

Husband thinks for a moment, which is hard in his current state of BSBS. "Well, I had some leftovers . . . ."

"Leftovers?" I try to remember what leftovers we had hanging around.

"The ones from when we went out . . . last Sunday."

It's Saturday.  As in SIX days later. (Yes, don't judge, they were still in the fridge).

"Hmmm, six day old Mexican food?"

"Is that bad?"

Why should I bother explaining? "Go lay down!" I say.

So, while I'll be spending my evening getting the kids to bed, cleaning out the refrigerator of too old leftovers, and checking to make sure the Husband is still in the Land of the Living, the Husband will spend his evening reminding me how sick he is, watching movies, laying in bed looking sad and pathetic, and hopefully getting over his self-inflicted food poisoning.

Let us all pray this BSBS passes quickly.

It's a good thing I love this guy.