My poor baby’s face is a pitiful sight to behold.  She’s on day three of a ferocious late-summer cold, complete with fever (as high as 102.5°F/39.5°C this afternoon — praised be acetaminophen), stuffed-up nose, wracking coughs, and occasional vomit.  Worst of all–though the sleepless nights are coming in a close second–her usual cheerful, easy-going demeanor has all but disappeared.

As of two or three hours ago, she does seem to be feeling somewhat better (she’s even cracked a smile or two, and babbled just a little in an oh-so-hoarse voice), so I’m crossing my fingers that tonight will be at least marginally easier than the past couple were.  In any case, Lydia’s the only one I’ve got to get up and out the door tomorrow, so the morning should be relatively low-stress and, with any luck, after she’s left I’ll be able to crawl back into my own bed for a few more winks (praised also be work-at-home husbands who are willing to take on extra kid duty so their wives can sleep away the days).