As I type this, I'm sitting in a very crowded library study lounge with a wad of tissues gingerly shoved up both nostrils. I'm also wearing leggings with ghosts on them and fuzzy slippers.

No, I do not have a nosebleed. I just happen to be, well, a little more snotty than Snoddy at the moment. And this moment has lasted for almost a week now.

"Why would you take your germy, nasty, boogery self to a moderately populated area looking like that?"

Mostly because I still have deadlines to meet and calling out sick will not do me any favors in the long run.

I had the blessing (in disguise, I will say) to grow up in a family filled with tough love. You might've been a blubbering mess, but you still went to school, unless you were

a) vomiting

b) running a fever.

But I think that might've been because the school sent you home if you were one of those two.

My brothers and I were fortunate enough to grow up under the loving affection of two fiercely independent parents, who instilled such values in us - some of it inadvertently. Asking for help is a last resort (and a lesson in humility), our dreams are big (actual castles in the clouds for a couple of us), we all have a tendency to be "walk-abouts", exploring new surroundings, and we are becoming productive adults in today's society.

I am the oldest in my family, and as a first-year in college there is only so much I can do to be a productive adult, and even less for my brothers that are all under the ages of 16.

But the sixteen-year-old can drive, the thirteen-year-old studies his Bible independently, the nine-year-old studies extra math to correct his deficiencies, and the eight-year-old grades his old papers to see what he needs to work on.

And myself? I take enough cold medicine to make myself semi-functional and carry around a box of tissues to class. I write articles and research papers (probably not well) through the fog in my brain.

Be proud, parents - your babies are turning out okay.