It wouldn't be the holidays...

...if we didn't all get colds.

My husband came down with the man flu last night. We all have the same bug, but he's the kind who gets sick and suddenly exhibits a mood and symptoms that would have you think he just had a round of chemo or outpatient surgery.

I like to grouse him about his cold habits, but it's a gentle poke. He is credited with getting me through eighteen weeks of morning sickness, four of which were spent in Morocco, a wonderful place where my stomach refused to accept anything other than fruit, bread, and Western fast food.  I can cut him some slack for wanting macaroni and cheese when his nose gets stuffed up.

In our nearly 10 years together, we tend to keep track of holidays by what calamities befell us. The sickness came a little early this year -- usually one of us comes down with something around December 27th and we pass around germs until our anniversary in early January.  Another tradition is our car acting up the day before we are scheduled to drive across the state.  We have walked into the house to be met with shrieks of "Did you get a new car for Christmas?!" multiple times.  Then, we engage in the time-honored calming down of the mothers as we explain -- "No, it's a rental. Do you really think we'd buy a Jeep?"

This is reminding me to take the car in for an oil change this week.