Reporting for Duty

At times, I can be tough. Like the time I ate a demon- possessed pastry in Ethiopia and was pretty sure I was going to die, I didn't even cry. I was just like, "well, that's it for me". Or that time when I had a six pound parasite doing an Alien reenactment by forcing it's way out of my body and I lived to tell the tale (to your chagrin, perhaps).
But there are times I can be a teensy bit less than stoic. The thing is, I hate being sick. Hate. My husband will tell you I have been known to actually hide under the covers and whimper over having a cold. It's just that being sick is so...yucky.
So I already don't ever want to be germ infested. But Little One has gone a step further and made it so that I am not allowed to be sick. Yup. I've learned that Mommies don't get to take sick days. If I stay in bed, who will read the books, shake the rattles, and ensure proper dryness of the booty?
Apparently I forgot to sign up for an understudy. So even though there are party buses full of little microbes shaking their bon-bons all up and down my naso-larangeal passages and doing shots over in the respiratory tract, I am Not Sick. At least, not whimpering.
Little One is going to toughen me right up. Look at this face. Do you see what I'm up against?! Drill. Ser. Geant.