Paul ran his first half marathon on Saturday. Did quite well too. I was very proud. But he woke up Sunday morning walking just like me. Exactly like me.
At first I wasn’t sure if the act was just another one of his hilarious impressions, because if so, he was dead on: the aching hips, the shifting weight, the audible struggle to get to an upright position…oooh, he’s good. But it was all genuine. The built up, post race lactic acid in his muscles had rendered my Hercules weak as a kitten.
So between waiting impatiently for his Ipad2, waddling around like a hip replacement candidate, and hitting the sack at 8:30pm right along with me, I’d say he had full-blown Couvade Syndrome. (That’s the medically correct term for a husband’s sympathy pregnancy.)
Whatever you want to call it, one of us had better recover soon. The kids can smell weakness.