Anya is sick

The other night as Amy and I gazed down loving at our beautiful sleeping daughter, we noted that there was something like a slight cute little snore going on. "Humph. I hope she's not getting a cold," one of us commented while the other agreed.

She was.

I always knew I'd love being a dad, all the fun I'd have playing with the little one, teaching them, showing them my unwavering affection, etc., etc. But there were always a couple things that I knew I would hate, namely: Feeding baby, and dealing with sick baby (strangely diapers never bothered me).

I've gotten used to the feeding thing, and while it's often very frustrating, it doesn't really gross me out anymore. I haven't yet gotten used to the sick thing.

And here is where I win my worst-dad-of-the-year mug with a hole in the bottom. It's not that Anya is sick and feeling bad that bothers me so. It's that it's GROSS. Additionally, those of you who know me know that, while I never actually am sick, the thought of being sick really stresses me out. So having a mobile virus-filled snot-fountain neither sneezing into her sleeve, nor sanitizing her hands and giving me hugs and open mouthed kisses every 10 seconds is really stressing me out. It's like having my very own zombie movie playing out in my living room.

Oh, did I mention the dog is sick too?

I'll spare the gory details, for gory they are; suffice to say I was up between 2 when the dog had an emergency, through 5 when, after finally getting my darling baby to sleep and walking across a dark living room to the hand sanitizer, I literally stepped on evidence of another emergency heretofore unknown to me.

Good times.

That being said, Anya is actually dealing with the being sick thing with relatively good cheer. She's whiney and all, but she's basically in good spirits.

Now I'm off to begin earthquake retro-fitting the basement so we can now meet Jammy's parents' gaze at PEPS.