Fairy Tale Character

I never really thought of myself as a princess.
I certainly never imagined myself as living in some sort of fairy tale.

But yes, if I had to imagine my husband as a fairy tale character, I would likely have placed him among the Prince Charmings, the heroes, although certainly one of the nerdier, more comical ones.

Until last night.

My husband has been nursing the beginning of a cold for the last couple of days.  And when Carlos gets a cold, the cough is the worst cough he has ever had, he's colder than he's ever been, then he's hotter than he's ever been, his throat hurts worse than ever before, and on and on.
I'm used to this.  I make some chicken soup, heat him up some Theraflu and pet his head until he falls asleep under a mountain of blankets.  Kind of like a toddler.
Hey, it works for us.

This is the first time, obviously, I have experienced my husband with a cold and a pregnant wife.

"No!  Das okay!  I god id," he says through his stuffed nose with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he rushes to make himself tea before I can.

"Baby!  Sid down!  I'll take id," he insists, with same blanket wrapped around shoulders, hacking up a lung, as he carries our dishes to the sink.

"I'm fine.  I'm fine.  As long as I can still walk, I'll be fine."

To which I say, "Oh, yea, that's a great measure of health.  Can I walk?  Yep.  I must be fine."

But still, my hero, right?  He absolutely insists that he can still take care of both of us even with his wretched cold.

Then bedtime arrives.

He rubs himself all over with Vapor Rub, which he uses as a cure-all in the same way the father from My Big Fat Greek Wedding uses Windex.  He's not only wrapped in his shoulder blanket of the evening, but also buried under a mountain of covers in our bed, sweating profusely.  And this is all before he falls asleep.
So here I am, with an extremely sensitive sense of smell, overwhelmed by the menthol fumes, assaulted by the waves of heat pushing at me from his side of the bed.

And then the tossing and turning begins.
His knee continually comes *this* close to my belly as he thrashes about, tossing off covers, pulling them back on, trying to cuddle with me (don't you dare!), throwing one leg off the bed, scooting higher, then lower.
He can only breathe out of his mouth, in this panting, raspy, loud and labored breath, which conveniently lands directly on the back of my neck.
He sneezes repeatedly, elbows me in the rib at one point.  All of this while I am trying desperately to be patient and fall asleep.

Finally, after what seems like hours of sweet, loving, wifely toleration, I get up, wander into the kitchen and notice that it is only 12:30 AM!  It has barely been two hours.  I still have all night to deal with this.

It did eventually get better, and I got a couple of hours of sleep, as did my poor husband.

But this morning when I woke up, it hit me:

"I'm married to the seven dwarfs."