Until recently I had immummity. Immummity is the opposite of man flu.
It's when because you are the main caring parent, you are never able to fall really ill so no matter what you've got, you describe it as a head cold and stagger on. Temperature like the Sahara sand at midday? The rain falling on your head as your child insists on walking to school because it can get a sticker for Be Kind to the Planet week will help take it down. Legs wobbling as you go to the shops? Just be careful that the fizzy drinks don't get too stirred up.
But alas those days are gone. The Piglet is old enough to get herself breakfast (as long as this is some unhealthy concoction of sugar and puffed up rice grains), she can put on her own clothes (usually a fetching combination of clashing reds and pinks) and rushes to answer the phone before we can get to it, responding politely: "Oh hullo, yes I'm just logging into Moshi Monsters now." (I will miss being able to talk to people on the landline.) Of course I continue to hover over her obsessively but my body knows. It insists that I feel so poorly that I ought to go to bed and leave the Good Fella and Piglet to survive happily without me. The only thing to do is take a large box of tissues and a good book with me and enjoy a little ill health.