sick

We've been sick for two solid weeks around here.

And I am a champion worrier.   I can worry you under the table.  You don't know what worrying is until you've met me.  If I could take my worrying to the Olympics, I'd bring home the gold, baby.  I'd have my own line of sneakers.

Though, sadly, of course, I cannot take my worrying to the olympics.  But I can take it–and my two stuffed-up children–into our bathroom with a box of tissues, run the shower, and call it a "sweat lodge."  Which is what ...