I do believe every single house in the world that is inhabited with kids has been dealing with some sort of illness in the past week or two.

Except us.

I didn't say anything. I didn't rub it in. I could have gloated that we were all chipper and as healthy as can be with nary a drop of vomit or misery in sight. I didn't because, well, if you haven't figured out where we live by now, surely you would make it a mission to find out and then show up at our doorstep brandishing torches and firearms. Another reason to not bother rubbing it in is that, in general, we do tend to land on the healthy side of the fence over here. While Alexis is surely going to have a runny nose for the first five years of her life, I'm pretty sure she is sick less than other kids.

She gets it from me. I rarely catch a cold. I'm so confident in that fact that not only will I loudly declare, "Go ahead and cough on me, you disgusting jerk" in an airplane, I will tell the Internet that I don't get sick. I missed exactly five days of school in my entire life--all due to chicken pox. Apparently, if you have bright red spots all over you, you aren't allowed to be around other kids, but you are allowed to hang out in your yard all day doing cartwheels and planning your world domination. Since my school days, I've been stricken a few times with various evil plagues, but not so much that I would think that I have anything to complain about. I am, of course, excluding the year that I was breastfeeding. A certain someone was literally sucking all of my resistance out of me, so I did get more than my share of colds that year. Evil immunity-sucking babies are just lucky they are cute.

So last night when Alexis turned into a Cling-On and wouldn't be put down, I wasn't sure what to think. We had friends over for the evening and I was torn between thinking she was being a snob (it wouldn't be the first time), or she was coming down with something. She stayed glued to somebody the entire evening and when she demanded extra cuddling before going to bed (darn the luck, I have a kid that wants to sit in a chair and cuddle for a few minutes before I put her in her bed), I was pretty sure that I would be seeing her again in a few hours.

As predicted, 2:00 came around and found me in the Toddler's room, trying to calm her down enough to go back to sleep. She was having none of it, so I finally just took her to bed with me. But she felt warm. And she seemed miserable. And her breathing was labored. After about 30 minutes of her whining and crying and generally just being a miserable little body, I decided she needed some drugs. Usually she is a little Amy Winehouse and not only wants the drugs, but she runs around screaming for more. Not last night. No, last night she wanted to play it straight and narrow. She screamed. She flailed. She clamped her mouth shut. She did everything she could to keep that Tylonel from making it into her mouth. So I partook in my favorite Toddler wrangling event, I pinned her down and shoved it down her throat. If she wasn't happy before that, she sure was at that moment.

Her flailing slowly became calmer. Her screams slowly dissolved to whimpers, and eventually the Toddler fell asleep. And she slept. And she slept. And she slept. Until she achieved a never before seen level of greatness--she slept until 10:00. She awoke with a flourish, singing and dancing and generally in excellent spirits. Looking at her now as she helps her bunny flap her fairy wings and fly around the room, you'd never know her body had waged war with alien beings in the middle of the night.

But I tell you, those five hours while she was sick? They sure did suck.

(If y'all need me, I'll just be hiding under the table so as to protect my head from all the debris you're throwing at me.)