Sick.

All of us. All three of us huddled under blankets trying to drink as many liquids as possible, then running to the bathroom to pee. Our kitchen counter looks like a pharmacy puked on it. Jackson has a wee little couch that will just break your heart. And trying to care for a sick baby is bad enough when one is healthy, but when one is just as sick, it is no good. I wanted to lay down next to him and wail just as loud. We have to give him anti-biotics that smell like cotton candy in a little plastic syringe, and though he likes the taste, he spits most of it out every time. Now everything he owns has sticky pink goo on it. Luckily, Jen and I both had Monday off, because we would have called in anyway. I didn't change out of my jammies for three days. Now I know how Arthur Dent feels.

I hope the worst is over.