Oh, Olivia, I deserve at least three hangnails for how bad I have been about updating your blog, which is why I’m hoping that medical science will have developed a cure for hangnails by the time you can read this. I promise I’ll be better. (Dad likes science.)

I’m going to save the story of your birth for another time--maybe even a big two-parter--because it is emotional and tiring and, well, seared into my memory. Besides, who says this has to be chronological? Not me. I’m not nearly that organized. (Dad is disorganized.)

You’re currently around four-and-a-half months old, and you have your first cold. I gave it to you, and your mom gave it to me, and our friend Christian gave it to her, and I’m guessing Christian got it from Microsoft. Odds are your virus is smart and socially awkward. It has also transformed my little lady into a sad, snotty, congested girl. Nothing has been harder than to watch you in this miserable state. (Dad hasn’t done many difficult things.)

You’re doing this thing right now where you’ll sneeze or cough and then groan just like a grownup. You’re totally and completely miserable, but you also can’t help but be adorable. Much to our surprise, and even though you obviously feel so terrible, you are still chatty and smiley and curious as ever. It’s what has made the whole thing bearable. Could it be that you are consciously resolving to continue moving, even in the face of what must be the most adversity you’ve known? Most adults might let a bad cold rule their week, and you make it a footnote.

Don’t get me wrong: you’ve had your grumpy moments, but they’ve passed quickly. It might be silly, but I really feel as if I’m glimpsing the future you. And I like it. (Dad is all emo.)

Tags: baby, sick, parenting