My poor kids. I don’t ever believe them when they say they’re sick. You see, I’m one of six kids and I have four, so I’ve told or heard every excuse they can think of.

So, the other night when my daughter came into the kitchen and said she had a stomachache, I asked her all the right questions:

* Do you have a test tomorrow? No?

* Do you have homework due tomorrow that you forgot about until now? No?

* Did you get in trouble today at school? No?

* Did somebody make fun of you today at school? No?

* Did you and your “boyfriend of the week” have a fight? No?

* Did you and one of your girlfriends have a fight? No?

She had passed the first test.

“Well, then, why do you think you have a stomachache?” I asked.

“I dunno. It just hurts.”

“Do you feel like you’re going to get sick?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, the best thing is to go to bed and get a good night’s sleep. It’s a wonder you’re not sick more often with your hectic schedule at all.”  I repeated things my mom used to tell me because the older I get, the better they sound.

“Here’s a bowl in case you get sick but try to make it to the toilet.” (I’m really not that cold-hearted, but at that point I still didn’t believe she was really sick.)

She trudged off to bed, her head hanging. I wondered if maybe she really was sick. Probably not, I decided.

A couple of hours later, she wandered into the kitchen, looking pretty green. She barely had the words “I REALLY don’t feel good” out when she lost her cookies right then and there. What a joy.

She had finally convinced me. I felt really, really, really bad that I hadn’t believed her in the first place. I put a cold washcloth on her forehead, went out and bought apple juice and crackers, and did all those other things my mom used to do when I was sick.

The next day, my son came in and said he wasn’t feeling well. I believed him.