The Fakers

I am not a hypochondriac. I'm not. My kids will tell you that actually treating an illness is a last resort in our house. First I attribute the symptoms to growing pains and send the kids to school. If they throw up there or get kicked out, we'll talk about the possibility of you maybe being sick for real. Then I'll give you medicine and send you to ballet. Of course, I keep them home if they have a fever or are spraying fluids of any kind. Don't worry, all you people with kids at our school!

Even with my denial/laissez-faire approach, Xanthe has been through a whole bottle of Motrin and missed two days of school, church and a party this week, Ptolemy has been to a specialist at Primary Children's about his foreskin, of all things, and Ruby was diagnosed today with atypical migraines, after spending the night holding her head and throwing up. (These episodes have been happening since she was six, but not frequently enough to go in for confirmation that that's what it was.) Xanthe is better now, but looks like the Elephant Man due to the bumpy rash she broke out in when her fever broke. While I was still at the doc with Ruby, my phone rang with the number of the elementary school. It was Araceli. "Mom? Can you come pick me up? I'm really muddy."
"Muddy? I don't see a problem."
"I'm all wet and my pants are all muddy! I can't even sit down!" Cue tears.
"OK, I'll come get you."
"My coat is gone! It was so muddy I couldn't even find it."
"OK, OK. I'm coming."
Sheesh. Sounds like the La Brea Tarpits out behind the playground. Shouldn't they be keeping the kids away from a hazard like that?

Now all the fakers are eating Ruby's candy from church and watching Curious George. I think I'm being played. If not by my kids themselves, then certainly by the Universe at large. Muddy? I give up!