See that photo? See the bandage wrapped tightly around Sophie’s little hand, the only thing protecting her delicate being from a horrible, flesh-eating bacteria?

She’s got a splinter. In her thumb. About a quarter of an inch long.

My daughter is a combination of the world’s youngest hypochondriac and a pre-school Ferris Bueller. If she has the slightest cough, she wants “grape medicine,” which is Children’s Liquid Tylenol. If she has to pick up her toys, she complains of the sudden onset of exquisite back pain, or else she collapses on the floor and attempts to crawl toward you, dragging her legs behind her like a paraplegic motorcycle crash victim. Her performances are Oscar-worthy and give me hope for my ultimate financial security, when I can manage her child star career and gleefully milk her overflowing bank account of all it contains. Hey, don’t give me that look: I brought her in to this world, so I figure she owes me a living, one to which I’ve never had the opportunity to grow accustomed to living.

My only real concern isn’t that one day she will be suffering from an honest, God-given disease and I won’t believe that she is ill, but rather that as she gets older she’ll realize that the only way to garner sympathy or to excuse herself from household chores is to up the ante and aim to imitate truly epic viruses or (belatedly-appearing) congenital defects. I can’t even begin to image how she’ll fake the symptoms of a club foot, or the dissolving organs of a good old fashioned ebola infection. She’s a smart kid though. I’m sure she’ll figure something out.