“Oh, the poor baby has a fever!” I said to the Devil when I picked him up early from  preschool.  (I had received a call less than two hours earlier at my office from a very relaxed sounding school administrator.)

“No I don’t.”  He replied.

“Yes you do. And you’re going to need a little medicine too when we get home.”

“No I don’t.”

“How do you feel.”


“You’re sick little guy.”

“No I’m not, so shut your stinky mouth.”  He just couldn’t admit it, the little disrespectful thing.

At home:

“Vin, stop jumping up and down on the bed, you’re sick and you need to rest.”

“I’m not sick!”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

Then he sits down on the bed and reluctantly lays his head on his pillow.

“What’s wrong?”  I ask.

“I don’t feel well.”

“That’s because you’re jumping up and down on your bed with a fever when you should be resting.”

“Shut up daddy.”