When your child gets sick, life enters a type of purgatory. One of therometers, bottles of sweet motrin in fruit-tastic flavors, pushing fluids with threats of lost cartoons, sleep interrupted by coughing, piles of snotty tissues overflowing wastebaskets and onto the floor, and windows that begin to look like prison bars trapping us all inside. The days of sickness seem to stretch. Was it really only three days? It felt like three hundred. I hate that my children are sick, but if they climb into my bed one more time, I may have to drag them out kicking and screaming.