I don’t know about the rest of you ladies, but whenever my husband — or anyone else in my family for that matter — gets sick with a stomach virus or the flu or a common cold, I’m about as empathetic as a five-pound bag of potatoes. When my husband Chris gets sick I’m okay with it for about three hours, but any discomfort he may have that lasts longer than that is apt to start my eyes to rolling. I don’t have any idea why I do this, and, while I’m doing it, I actually realize how mean it is. And I keep right on doing it. People my age typically try to work on their problem areas, trying to curb some of their bad habits. Instead, when Chris gets sick I tend NOT to be nice to him. This time it has taken me five days to bring him a glass of ice water or to offer to open a can of soup for him. I’ve watched him go through a giant box of Kleenex, and three rolls of toilet paper after he ran out of the Kleenex. Did I offer to go to the store for more tissues? No. Did I offer to
This is where the action is. Where hopes and dreams meet harsh realities like middle age, household chores, marriage, cooking, family and friends, raising kids, and keeping the faith on a planet filled with beautiful turmoil.