"I don't want to die over some Delsym!"

My headstrong, know it all eleven year old son has been coughing since Christmas. He's always been an exceptionally healthy child. I can count on one hand how many times he's been sick in his life and, believe me, I thank God for that fact. Aside from being attacked by a friend's dog two years ago, having his face ripped open, and being rushed to the ER where he received 22 stitches, we've dodged the health crisis bullet. 


As you can imagine, the boy thinks he's some kind of miracle and that his immune system has super powers the likes of which the world has never seen. In other words, he doesn't know how to be ill. Nor can he admit the fact that he's under the weather. This will bode well for his future wife, I hope. I very often find myself feeling bad for her due to his stubborn cockiness and inability to clean up after himself in any way, shape, or form. For this, and many other reasons, I have resolved to be a very loving future mother-in-law. Still, it's  comforting to know that she'll never be able to complain about him being Man Sick. 


Anyway, after near constant bickering with the child and watching his symptoms progress instead of improve over the last few weeks, I decided it was time to make an appointment with his pediatrician yesterday. Come to find out, the little one has a sinus and upper respiratory infection. Daddy, a trained medical professional but by no means an actual doctor, brought him home with a basic antibiotic, children's cough syrup, and administered his first dosages. 


I thought for sure that by the time I came home from work, my boo boo baby bear boy would be quite contrite and ready to concede that he was, in fact, sick this entire time. Well, I had another thing coming. He told me that because he doesn't have a "temperature" he's not "technically sick." I replied, "Dear, I certainly hope that you DO have a temperature, otherwise I fear you'd be dead. What you mean to say is that you don't have a fever." He replied, "Yeah, whatever. You're smart. You know what I mean." Though he acknowledged my inherent intelligence, and I should have counted that as a victory, I was not permitted to ride that wave of accomplishment for long. 


This very morning when I was preparing his medicine along with his breakfast, he was monitoring every move I made and critiquing me along the way. I made sure to read the dosage instructions on the cough syrup very carefully and began pouring it into the little plastic cup that came in the package. That's when the boy snapped. He said, "That looks like more than daddy gave me! You're going to overdose me! I don't want to die over some Delsym!" 


After laughing hysterically for a good 30 seconds, I read the directions to him and said, "I know you believe that your father is better suited for this job and that you have convinced yourself that he's a doctor. However, you've survived up until this point, so I think you should probably give me a bit more credit about my ability to keep you alive." He looked at me sideways, apparently gauging whether I was trying to pull some sneaky Casey Anthony shit, and took the medicine. 


So far, so good. I haven't gotten a call from the school yet advising me that he's been rushed to the hospital because of an apparent drug overdose and it's been just over two hours since he swallowed the stuff. Maybe I'll finally be able to cash in my Mommy's Always Right chips with him later on tonight.