I know perfectly well that without husbands there are no babies and no babies daddy’s.
There’s no male head of the household and no one to teach sons how to tell their wives that they’re always right…period.
And if all husband’s were wives, then daughters wouldn’t have someone they could go to and ask if mommy has PMS.
However, if husband’s were wives then doctor’s wouldn’t need the government to supplement their lawsuit defense fun BECAUSE ALL of the waiting room office chairs would be full with grown men admitting they can’t smell or taste anything.
After having grown up as big sister to only brothers and then getting married and giving birth to 5 sons…I feel somewhat qualified in saying that I am an expert in the many ways of man and how they don’t need a doctor.
Even when there’s a cute nurse with a bag full of caffeinated candy and a cleavage problem.
And unless wife drives husband or withholds dinner and play time, daddy will never go get fixed and would rather die a martyrs death and be remembered as a Saint then have a prescription that turns their pee green.
Take Valentine’s Day of 2000 and something…
It was a Saturday morning like any other.
The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, my kids were complaining and the dog had peed on the family room area rug.
“So…do you want to see a doctor?”
“No, no…must work.”
“Do you want aspirin?”
“I’m fine…just water.” And then he fell to the floor.
Needless to say when he came home 5 hours later, clutching flowers and a huge Hershey’s chocolate bar in his hand, he left a trail of smoke signals behind him as he sweat balls of fire.
“Thanks honey,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
“What? He answered. “I see your lips moving, but I can’t hear anything.”
He never did go to the doctor and ended up with bronchitis, pneumonia and almost death.
And so…the years go by and I learned to accept the fact that my husband will never see a doctor unless he gets hit by a car while changing a blown out tire on the freeway at 5am on the day after a rainy day holiday during the middle of the week.
Oh…wait. Rewind to last Thursday.
Ya know, the 5th of July. The day after the 4th of July which happened to fall on a Wednesday that had blessed us with a rare rain storm in Phoenix.
I had just gotten off of my cell phone with my parish Priest to apologize for missing a Holy Day of Obligation because I had been trying to stop my 5 year old from burning all of my neighbors bras after she had watched, “I am woman hear me roar” on the History Channel when my husband came home 4 hours early, limping, panting and holding his side.
“Hey babe. Why are you here so early?” I asked him as I pulled a lego out of my left foot and put the fire out in the microwave oven.
“Didn’t you hear the phone ring at 5am, 6am or 6:15am?” He asked.
“I was on the freeway, the tire blew, I started to change the tire, got hit by a car and knocked out. The guy took off and as he did, he hit the truck.”
I finally turned around and looked at my husband.
“Oh honey! Are you okay? Did you call the cops? What did the paramedics say?” I asked while I got a wet towel to wipe him off with.
“Yes, no and what paramedics?”
“Wait a minute. You got hit by a car and didn’t see a doctor?”
“What’s a doctor?” He asked and then passed out.