They do, however, get that 8-3 bug that only seems to strike school-aged children between the months of September and June. They get that one fairly frequently, truth be told.
Anyway, we've got a piper down over here. She was sick on Thursday, but though she's been rocking some green 11's since, she's felt fine. She's been to the Ikea playground three days in a row (more on that later), she was well enough that I could leave her with her brothers to babysit and go meet Mandy Gratton (also, later) and she's had Beach Boys dance parties with her daddy. She's been great, actually, until about 7 tonight. One second she was playing with her brother and the next second, the ache was wiggling out.
"Momma," she said, "the ache is wiggowing out."
And then she clutched her ear and started screaming. And then I flashed back to Wrath of Khan, clutched my ears and started screaming. And then we ran to the late-hours clinic that was open until 8, made it there by 7:40 and were greeted by a great big purple sign that read, "We're closed; no exceptions. We're not an emergency room."
I am not kidding.
We came home, and she cried all the way because Momma, the doctor have to make it better. I told her the doctor was closed and we'd have to go back tomorrow and she cried some more and said, "No, you just go open the doctor, momma." And through clenched teeth I said, "Yes, dear, I certainly would like to go open the doctor right about now, but how about we go eat ice cream instead?" We watched Backyardigans right over prime time tv, she tried and failed to eat something and right now Stinky McSweatypants is passed out in my bed. Chances are good we will end up at the emergency room some time tonight, thanks to the clinic with the clock that rounds up, even though aches wiggowing out do not emergencies make.
They do pathetically cute little kids make, though.