I’m 44. I’m happy if I don’t get hand cramps whilst wiping what I managed to squeeze out before Mr Busy Britches toddled into the toilet. With a wine glass full of ice cubes and a bag of hammers, which to him seemed obvious. Your guess is as good as mine.

Let’s just say our priorities rarely match.

Anyway, 72 hours after the offending sneeze, you’ll find yourself in the tortuous throes of being sick while parenting. Welcome to a new rock bottom. Until three weeks later when the child has long rebounded, now stronger, larger, and angrier. He’ll never forget those mismatched priorities and your grumbling and growling from behind the bathroom door. All the while you’re still coughing out secretions whose colour can only be described as “I’m getting a little concerned”.

One night, after midnight and before dawn, desperate for two continuous sleeping hours to eek out half a percent of healing, you’ll need a cup of mucous melting Hot Honey Water. It’s an old family recipe. The ingredient list is simple:

• Hot water
• Honey

I use about a soup spoon full of honey because for some reason we have three hundred soup spoons to go with our four meagre soup bowls. At some point I must have stocked up — let me rephrase. At some point, in the delirium of dad-braining mania, stumbling through Briscoes, surely I fell upon a dramatic soup spoon special offer. Irresistible. Sixty percent off, obviously. And now here I am. 296 extra soup spoons later.

It’s after midnight. And I’m gonna chug-a-lug hot honey water stirred with a deep discounted soup spoon, because this is how I roll on Saturday nights anymore, with my cramped hands and coughed-raw throat. Good times.

Cooking instructions: Put the spoonful of honey in a cup. Pour the hot water over the spoonful of honey. Stir. Done.

Now, let’s talk about the featured image here. This is tonight’s (this morning’s?) honey water. It’s 1.23 a.m. I took this picture then thought, hey wait. I should take a picture of Hot Honey Water in my “Greatest Dad in the World” mug. Wouldn’t that be ironic or cute or something worth preserving.

But I couldn’t find the beloved vessel.

You know where it was? On the verandah. Full of potting soil and a dead basil plant. So much for my magic pesto recipe. And that, my friends, is irony. Dontcha think?

Whoa. Hold up.

Hammers? Where did he get so many hammers? In a bag?

Pay no mind (you’ll remind yourself aloud and often).

Roll on.

Just roll on.

And pray that the hot honey water does the job before dawn.