Don't give birth in a plague house.

Yesterday Samuel was a bit disobedient, (colouring on the freshly painted windowsills, for example, and digging through the garbage) a bit grumpy, (crying when I went to work, when I came home, when he had to go to bed, when I changed his diaper, over every morsel of food he ate...) and had a slightly runny nose and a bit of a rash on his bottom.

I chalked it up to being two years old, which is the usual cause of these days, and also the fact that Mama has worked a very long week and he's been home with Daddy every day, and maybe the drippy nose, or possibly just giving me a chance to squeeze in some extra holiness before Lent is done.

And then this morning he woke up with dried mucus all over his face, a temperature and that glassy-eyed stare that says: "Please put me in several large blankets on the sofa and put on cartoons and give me apple juice.  I'm sick."

Sick, great.  Oh little doodle-face, do you have to be sick NOW?  Really?

And to top it off I can feel myself getting sort of sick-ish, too.  And when I got to work and spoke to David on the phone he sounded a little sick-ish.

"Are you getting sick?" I asked suspiciously
"No, I am not getting sick."
"Are you sure?  Because you sound funny.  And you always sound funny before you get sick."
"I don't know what to tell you."
"Are you lying to me?  You are getting sick, aren't you?"
"No, I am not getting sick."

He's soooooooooo getting sick.  I can tell.