Sick.

That’s the diagnosis for my two boys, who both got antibiotics today.

The verdict? Sinus infections. I had a hunch that it was, considering both have been hacking throughout the night. Yet, kids will be kids. They won’t admit that they don’t feel good.

Despite the fact that they can’t breathe through their nose, which makes my four-year-old angry when he tries to suck his thumb, both boys won’t admit they don’t feel good.

Despite the fact that their cheeks are flushed, and they reach for a Kleenex more often than I reach for my Starbucks cup, they say they aren’t sick.

Despite the fact that minor occurences tend to send them over the edge and our youngest had a meltdown in aisle 10 at CVS, they say they couldn’t be better. By the way, sorry about the bottles of Brut aftershave he knocked over in his efforts to escape time alone.

Despite the fact that they’ve been in their pj’s the entire day, pirates for one and karate for the other, and my oldest has sneezed four times while I write this, they still say, “We’re fine, Mooooooooooom.”

And despite the fact that the boys haven’t eaten a fourth of what they normally inhale, they say “we don’t neeeeeed medicine.”

They’re troopers, for sure. Until it’s time to tuck them in. You can bet they’ll pull the sick card, and say…

“Since we don’t feel good, can we sleep in your bed?”

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