Mommy makes everything better. I know this because it was told to me over and over again — not in so many words, exactly, but it sheer repetition as Jellybean whined, “Mommy.” “Mommy.” “Where's Mommy?” and “When's Mommy coming home?” about a billion times before 10 a.m.

“Mommy” usually gets home around 5 p.m.

Jellybean was sick with strep throat and that we didn't find this out until late afternoon on Sunday is just proof that God is a woman who likes to toss a little payback toward work-at-home fathers. I mean, had those gnarly white pustules appeared on the back of Jellybean's throat a day or two earlier, she would've been cleared to go back to school and I wouldn't be left feeling strangely hung-over after an eight-hour cartoon marathon.

I love daycare. God bless those of you who can home school your children. You are saints in my book (or gluttons for punishment) because I don't think I could spend that much time with my children — a sentiment that would certainly go both ways. After home schooling Jellybean up until maybe the third grade – when my working knowledge would run out - I'd expect her to try and smother me in my sleep.

But with my baby home sick and My Lovely Wife having a job less lenient than mine, I was prepared to make the best of it. Truth be told – and as true evidence to my child-rearing naiveté – I was actually looking forward to it.

I remember when coworkers, mothers mostly, would call in sick because their baby was sick. I'd roll my eyes with a “lucky dogs” smirk and secretly wish I could take a day off under such false pretenses. (It was with the same childish jealousy that I treated chicks in middle school who skipped out on quizzes to go to the bathroom feigning “girl problems.”)

I was dumb then and dumb now, having only grown bigger in between.

This was among the longest days of my life, ranking right up there with the day I had to get a colonoscopy. Though less painful, I felt about as helpless. Jellybean was really sick and nothing I did could comfort her. We watched movies and moped around all day. To the innocent observer, this might sound almost luxurious, but there's a lot of strenuous activity that comes from doing nothing to the point where I actually think I pulled a muscle from changing positions on the couch.

Jellybean wouldn't let me out of arm's reach. Just when I thought she was engrossed in Harry Potter enough to let me sneak off to go to the bathroom, there'd be this weak knock on the door. “Daddy, what're doing in there?”

And convincing the child to take her medicine – the medicine that'll make her throat stop hurting, her fever go down and her sniffles dry up – requires the type of negotiating skills that would make the joint chiefs proud. I used strawberry milkshakes rather than the threat of nuclear annihilation to get the job done.

But whenever the swell of symptoms returned, a nap was foiled or a commercial interrupted “Pirates of the Caribbean” the pleas for “Mommy” began in earnest. And when five o'clock came, I don't know who was happier when My Lovely Wife walked through the door.

Mommy knows best. Daddy knows when to admit defeat.