For the past week, my wife and oldest son have both been congested. I thought it was just allergies, until it hit me yesterday. I started in the morning with a slight rasp in my throat. By the end of the day, my head was pounding and all the congestion had brought back my breathing problems. 

This morning was one of those flu mornings, where nothing feels quite right.

I stomped out to the kitchen to do the morning routine with the boys, then dropped into my seat for breakfast. “Blech,” I said. “I’m sick.”

“You’re not sick,” my youngest said. “Momma’s sick.”

She called in sick this morning and was sitting on the couch.

“Momma?” I said. “She just has a sniffle. I’m sick.”

“Nah-ah,” his older brother said. “You’re not sick. Poor Momma. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said with her Momma-smirk, “thanks for asking.”

“I’m dying here! My head hurts. I can’t breathe right. I’m sniffling. My throat hurts. . .”

“It’s hard to tell when Daddy’s sick,” my wife interrupted. “Cause he’s so stoic.”

The boys laughed. “No, really,” the youngest said to his mother. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

“I won’t,” I said. “I’m barely able to talk I’m so sick.”

Both boys laughed again.

Sheesh.