Nothing. NOTHING. Especially when it’s your 11 month old, who is usually the epitome of happiness and who personifies “chillin’ like a villain”.
Poor little Mika-Moo: your gums are swollen up like an inflatable mattress, your eyes are oozing luminous green gunk and your nose is running faster than Oscar Pistorius at the Paralympics.
Sometimes I wish I could just pop you into a little bubble until you’re big enough to punch those pesky germs in the nads. But then I wonder how much fun you’d have if you couldn’t crawl around the house, getting dirtier with every slap of your little hands on the wooden floors and kitchen tiles. It’s so hard to see you ill, but I think it would be harder to see you miserable because you were in some kind of obsessive-mommy quarantine.
Just get better soon, okay my Noodle?