MUSH ALERT. You've been warned.

My husband is sick. With a terrible, monstrous head cold. He hasn't gone to work once all week. He's not sleeping hardly at all, either, because he can't breathe. And every day when I've returned home from work or the store or meeting, he says "Sweetie. Welcome home" in a I-have-a-scratchy-sore-throat-and-a-runny-nose-and-a-cough sort of voice instead of his usual boisterous tone. But in spite of his malady, what did he do on Tuesday morning, after another long night of tossing and turning and sneezing? He made me breakfast. It's true. There I was, stumbling down the stairs, hair askew and with sleepy eyes, and there he was in front of the frying pan. And he is light years ahead of me in the flipping of the eggs department, believe me. I always take care of him, he said, and he wanted to take care of me.

Sigh. And swoon.


P.S. And I do not want to hear any rubbish from any hecklers about how, if he's really so sick, he shouldn't be messing around with food. THERE WILL BE NO HECKLING!