Silly me, before I became a mom I thought you could gauge how sick a child is by the numbers on the thermometer. Once the temp hits triple digits, it becomes time to whip out the Tylenol and juice pops, and let nature take it's course.
"How you feeling buddy?" I kiss his forehead in that sneaky way mothers do ... at once comforting and probing. "OK," he croaks noncommittally. He, too, is no dummy. How he's feeling depends in no small measure upon ...
* Whether I look as though I'm ready to offer him another popsicle or juice box.
* Whether he can get any extra mileage out of my ministrations by driving his sister crazy with the knowledge that, as she is perfectly well, she does not rate an infinite supply of frozen confections.
* Whether his sore throat will cause him to miss any adventures. (School and church are OK, so long as the popsicle supply doesn't run out.)
* Whether by admitting to infirmity he can escape the inevitable consequences for (pick one) vexing his sister, leaving his wet PJs on the floor, trashing his bathroom, or shirking on his homework.
Take that, Ferris Bueller. There's a new "bad boy" in town.