Poor Willow has her first cold. Her nose runneth over almost as much as her drool does, although thank heavens it isn't completely stopped up or she wouldn't be able to nurse and that would be the end of life as we know it.
I don't know whether this is the result of Thursdays excursion into a tornado; Dave says the getting wet = getting a cold math is a myth, but it seems to make sense to me. Plus that means that then I can feel guilty, and I always seem to gravitate toward whatever answer does that.
She's a very goodnatured sick girl. She's mostly been chatting and playing happily--with the newspaper, with the toys in RockNoodle's room, with my nostrils. I've been thinking that we should move the toys Willow doesn't care much about into RockNoodle's room so that they will gain some of her aura of wonder and therefore be fun again.
Oh dear. The nap is ending, and it has only been twenty minutes. She must have gotten stuffed up again.