Sick

Me: (tiny cough)

Little Miss Thing, age 8: “I think you’re sick.”

Me: “I’m not sick.”

LMT: “I think you have that one disease.”

Me: “I’m afraid to ask.”

LMT: “You have P-new-mommia.”

Me: “Do you mean pneumonia?”

LMT: “No, it’s P-new-mommia. You have to go pee… with a newspaper… and Mama!”

(so much giggling)

Me: …

Killing me Softly

Me: “I hate going to bed sick.”

Wonderful Wife: “Here, have some NyQuil Severe.”

Me: (slurp)

Me: “Aaack! It burns so much going down! Did it finally happen? Did you just poison me for the insurance money?”

WW: “No. If I ever poison you, I’ll choose poison that makes you die quietly without complaining so much.”

Me: “Good to know.”