Duped!

Children are conniving beasts.

They take full advantage of their doll-like cuteness and the sympathetic, nurturing response their semingly innocent nature evokes in even the most level headed adult. They use this power to bend your will, blind you to bad decisions and twist you unfailingly to their every whim.

If you told me I'd also just described the devil, I'd be inclined to agree.

Case in point: both boys woke up "sick" today. Totally seperately. Miles came into my room about 6:30 and with big, puppy dog eyes told me he didn't "feel good. "

"OK," I said. "You haven't been sick for awhile. You can stay home today."

I set him up on the couch with a blanket and some cartoons and a glass of apple juice, then headed back upstairs to wake Isaac.

Isaac is a rock and always has been. He's the healthy one in our family. Colds can circulate among me, Miles, and LSW for weeks while Isaac never so much as sneezes. So when he sleepily told me, "I don't feel good" at 7am, I bought into it-hook, line, and sinker.

They've both caught the same bug, I thought. Nothing fishy about this. No siree. Dum-dee-dum-dum-dum.

Quickly mulling over the things I would need to reschedule with both boys in sick bay, I tucked Isaac back in, went back downstairs, and called their respective schools to let them know the boys would be absent.

I didn't bother getting dressed, figuring it would be a long, quiet morning. The witching hour-8:15, the official start of the school day-came and went with a gentle stillness gripping the house.

This, my friends, is what is also known as the calm before the storm.

Isaac came downstairs at 8:30 and took up his position in front of "Spongebob Squarepants."Announced he was "feeling a little better." Miles chimed in, "Me, too."

A shudder passed through me. I knew in an instant that I had been had.

By 9:00, Legos and pillows littered the floor. At 9:10, a flying stuffed sheep knocked over a full cup of orange juice. At 9:15, the wrestling started.

At 9:20, I got pissed.

I gathered the grinning, scheming bozos around me, their once oh-so-pale cheeks now flushed red from vigorous play. I proceeded, with lascivious detail, to tell the story of "The Boy Who Cried Wolf," adding to the standard narrative an angry father with a sharp axe.

Now, a virtuous parent would, at this point, have followed up by marching them off to the bathroom, gotten them dressed and taken them to school, having only missed an hour.

"Virtuous," however, is not on the short list of my attributes. Not to mention, I had just put on a fresh pot of coffee.

Instead, I invoked my dear mother's ancient and frequently-deployed "sick day" rule: unless you're in bed, in the bathroom, or on the couch, you are well enough to go to school.

They were back on the couch in about three seconds flat.

It's been an off-and-on battle for the rest of the day, really something of a cat-and-mouse game that we're all kind of enjoying. Being plotting creatures of the underworld, they've tried to use every possible loophole their devious little minds can conjure up: "Dad, will you run upstairs and get my slippers? I can't get off the couch."

Miles at one point asked, "What do we do if there's a fire?" I assured him that escaping a fire superceded the sick day rule. But unless I smell smoke or see flames, his ass stays on the couch.

So my overall defensive strategy-create such a boring day at home that they never pull this stunt again, or at the very least, consider its ramifications before doing so-might pay off in the long run.

Then again, it probably won't. Because children are conniving beasts. And I am their unfailing dunce of a servant.