The husband (who works the graveyard shift) was so tired, having only got 6.5 hours of sleep the day before, that right after dinner he went to bed and slept right up until it was time to go to work. (He said he was ‘making up for his lost sleep’.)
His wife – who typically got between 4-5 hrs a sleep every night – came home from work (and had to bring work home with her from the office), had to clean up after dinner was over, had to pick up what-ever mess the children had made that day, help 3 older kids with homework and their baths, take care of the baby (who had an allergic reaction to an antibiotic a few days earlier and was covered head-to-toe in hives) and put him to bed, got things ready for the next day, and then still had to do the work she had brought home.
The husband woke up went to work.
The wife would have gone to bed (and would have gotten 6 hrs of sleep) but the baby woke up, screaming bloody murder.
The wife got up and checked on the baby. He was hungry (due to the steroids he was taking), so the wife made him a bottle. He finally went back to sleep.
The wife lay down again (and would have gotten about 5.5hrs of sleep) but the baby woke up again, about 45 minutes later.
The wife got up and checked on the baby. He had a dirty diaper (diarrhea) due to the steroids, so the wife changed his diaper. The baby also had a very bad diaper rash (from all the diarrhea) and so he screamed bloody murder again and after another 30 minutes, finally went back to sleep.
The wife lay down again, but before she could even figure out how much time she had to sleep, she heard her son, ‘A’ run into the bathroom and throw-up.
The wife got up and checked on her son. He was standing in front of the toilet – with his pants off – puking into the toilet…..and shitting on the floor at the same time.
The child looked at his mother and said, “Hey – I didn’t get any throw up on the floor; I made it all in the toilet.”
“Ummm, that’s good”, said his mother – as she looked at the all the shit on her bathroom rug.
“I did accidentally poop in my pants though”, said the child. “That’s why I took them off.”
“Ummm, honey”, said his mother. “Did you know that you accidentally pooped on the floor?”
The child did not know and was surprised by this. He told his mother not to worry; that he wasn’t going to put the old underwear back on and he would get some new ones from his drawer.
The wife told the child she was more worried about him putting on his clean underwear with poop smeared all over his butt.
The son got into the tub while the mother folded up the rug – with his dirty clothes in it – and took them to the laundry room. When she went back to check on her son, he was standing in the tub, filling up a cup with water and trying to toss it over his shoulder, and make it onto his butt (that he couldn’t see) and wash off the poop. The mother helped get the child cleaned up and he finally went back to bed.
The wife lay down again, but it was just to watch some TV before her alarm went off.
The husband came home from work and asked the wife how everything went the previous night.
The wife told him everything that had occurred and how she hadn’t been to sleep yet.
The husband said, “Yeah, I know what you mean; I’m tired too.”
Wimpy White Boy Disease is a genetic condition that all (or most) Caucasian males are born with.
Symptoms - which range from mild to extreme - include inability to multi-task, hyper-sensitized to minor medical ailments but extremely desensitized to most feelings and emotions, an abnormal, continuing attachment to one’s mother (although some research suggests that this may actually be a side-effect of the disease, rather than a symptom of it), diminished memory function (both long and short term), delusions of grandeur, varying degrees of brain damage - specifically related to ‘Common Sense’ , a strong compulsion for the fecal matter of the male bovine (bullshit), and unexplained aversions to inordinate objects – such as vacuum cleaners, mops, and toilet-bowl brushes.
The afflicted male may not present with all of these symptoms, although findings suggest that most do. Age of onset also varies, with some showing signs at birth and others not until their teenage years. Onset almost exclusively occurs by the time puberty is reached.
Examples of WWBD include:
A husband laying in bed all week due to a cold……will still expect his wife to have completely recovered from a C-section upon being discharged from the hospital.
A WWBD husband will expect his wife to remember every birthday on his family tree and buy gifts for said birthdays – including his mother’s ‘Mother’s Day’ present and then expect her to spend Mother’s Day at his mother’s house…….and then not even get her a card for Mother’s Day…….or have the children make her one. And of course, that woman’s three sons wouldn’t have been capable of remembering on their own to do that for her either.
A son affected with WWBD will watch his mother take clothes out of the dryer, fold them, put them in a laundry basket and ask him to go put them away in his room (which after much reminding, he does). Later – that same day – he will watch his mother give him a single piece of clean clothing (like one pair of jeans) and ask him to go put that away in his room. That same boy will walk into his room and drop that one pair of jeans into the empty basket on his bedroom floor. Sometimes, he just leaves it there and sometimes, he turns right around and picks it up and puts it away. When the mother asks him why he didn’t just go directly to the dresser and put the jeans away, the WWBD affected son will say, “I thought it’s supposed to go in the ‘clean clothes’ basket first”. The obvious common sense connection that a basket is mainly used when you have multiple items and that the main goal is to get the clothes in the drawers – not to make sure they hit several check points along the way – is lost on the WWBD child.
Sons will also find a way to move a 6ft basket-ball goal that weighs more than they do from their driveway – halfway down the street – to their friend’s house……..and then tell their mother that it’s too hard for them to operate a broom.
A wife will ask her husband to ask the Pediatrician a certain question (when he takes their son for his check-up). He will remember to ask the question, but then can’t remember the Dr.’s answer. If the wife becomes frustrated with this, the husband will say, “WELL GOSH, I CAN’T DO EVERYTHING AROUND HERE! I MEAN, I HAD TO FEED THE BABY, I HAD TO GET THE BABY READY, I HAD TO TAKE THE BABY TO THE DR., I HAD TO REMEMBER ALL YOUR QUESTIONS, AND THEN BECAUSE I CAN’T REMEMBER EVERY LITTLE DETAIL OF THE ANSWER – YOU’RE JUMPING MY ASS!” The wife will calmly point out that she does that every day when she takes the baby to daycare and that she did lay the clothes out, get the bottle ready and pack up the diaper bag for him before she left the house that morning. She will also remind him that it was only one question that he had to remember – not several, and he didn’t forget one detail of the answer – he forgot the whole answer. The husband will then say, “Well – the reason why I forget stuff is because I don’t bother to remember it if it isn’t important, and all the stuff you remember is the easy, non-important stuff. (Actually, in that example you can see the diminished memory function, delusions of grandeur, and bovine fecal matter of the disease.)
A true story; a married woman, with a daughter and two sons, was in the hospital – delivering her fourth child. The baby was a Caucasian male and was born at 37 weeks gestation after showing some signs of distress in the womb. This was due to a physical malady of the woman, not anything relating to the baby.
Upon birth, the infant started showing signs of respiratory distress – but for no obvious reason. The physicians (males) told the woman they didn’t know what was wrong with her baby and that they were taking him to the NICU. The next few days were very upsetting as none of the Dr.’s could figure out what was wrong and how to help the little guy. On the third day – as hope seemed to be lost – a female physician, who had just come on duty, examined the tiny baby as he struggled to breathe. She went through his chart and all of his test results and then noticed the mother sobbing in the chair by the isolate. The sympathetic Dr. asked the mother what was wrong.
The mother looked at her incredulously and said, “What do you mean, ‘what’s wrong’? My baby is sick. For some reason, he doesn’t want to breathe on his own and no one knows why. The Dr.’s tell me if he doesn’t improve, they might have to take drastic measures. I just don’t get it. I did everything I was supposed to during my pregnancy, he’s only a little early, and for some reason – that little 32- weeker in the crib next to him is doing better than he is, and she will probably go home before he does.
The physician looked surprised and asked, “What do you mean, ‘they told you he was really sick and they might have to take drastic measures’? The only thing that is wrong with your baby is that he’s a white male and that’s not something we would correct even if we could.” The mother just stared at her like she was bat-shit crazy and so the physician explained further.
“Your baby is suffering from WWBD – Wimpy White Boy Disease. If conception to birth was a race and at the starting line was a black female baby, an Aisan male baby, and your son – your son would be the very last one to cross the finish line. We’re not really sure why that is – but for some reason, white male babies seem to have more trouble than any other group. I’ve seen Caucasian twins – boy/girl – and the girl will almost always do better than her brother starting out. So – at 37 weeks, most babies are perfectly ready to move out of the womb – except the Wimpy White Boy. So, what we’ve got to do is just support him and help him to breathe and let him know that he can do this on his own. And he will.”
The woman nodded and decided to put her faith in what the physician said. After the physician left, the woman started to notice just how true the woman’s words were. That little 32 weeker was having daily CT scans, blood draws, and even a spinal tap. She was in an incubator – under a bili light – with sunglasses strapped to her head and IVs and wires poking out of her everywhere. But when someone reached in to do something else to her, she would fight back – grabbing at things and pulling things off, and she would screech. Not cry – screech; like a harpy. It was her war cry. It was like she was saying, “BRING IT ON BITCHES!!!! NEVER SURRENDER, NEVER SURRENDER!!!!”
The Wimpy White Boy, on the other hand, who was undoubtedly the fattest baby in the NICU and only had the pulse-ox monitor on him, would freak the F-out whenever a nurse took his temperature. “OHMIGOD!.....(hyperventilate, sniff, sniff, choke, choke)……THERE’S SOMETHING IN MY BUTT; I’M GOING TO DIE!!!!” Then after he calmed down from his traumatic event, he would be too tired to breathe or suck from a bottle so then they would turn his oxygen up and feed him through his feeding tube.
The mother, remembering what the Dr. said about doing it on his own, looked down at her son and said, “Hey – pay attention! If you think a thermometer up your ass is the worst thing in life, you are in for a rude awakening. There’s immunizations, stitches, broken bones, and lots of other things for you to look forward too. Not to mention all the emotional boo-boos out here. And what’s all this crap about not wanting to breathe or eat on your own. I love you with all my heart – but there is no way you’re going to move back into my womb. You’re born – you’re just going to have to accept that and move on. You can do it. I know you can!
Well, wouldn’t you know it…..that Wimpy White Boy turned a corner that very next day. He started taking his temperature like a man (or I guess a woman), kept trying to pull the nasal canula out of his nose and the first time he saw his mother’s boobs – he said, ‘To hell with this feeding tube and bottle bullshit’ and was never ‘too tired’ to eat again. He improved very quickly……and he did get to go home before that 32-weeker.
As his parent’s carried him out of that NICU, the baby looked over at that baby girl and she looked at him and cried out, “NEVER SURRENDER!”