What can't be cured, must be endured

Whoo-eee. Look at the time stamp on this baby, won't you?

This is what comes of small children with colds. And after an hour of patting, singing, those funny middle-of-the-wee-hours conversations I imagine most parents have ("Do you think Cameron would like some referrals? What is 'probate,' exactly?"), wielding the device affectionately known around here as the Brain Sucker, and nursing more times than I can count, I finally gave in, wrote off sleep for the night, and turned on the light. Fortunately I was near the end of a passable book (Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and someone else, Niel someone.) Don't read it unless you have more time than you need, though. . .

At any rate, I just surrendered. Gave the littlest Thing a toy, started reading and patting and singing, but without that edge of "hurry up and go to sleep" to it, and just, well, was.

And now she's asleep, and they're all asleep, and I'm going to be asleep for as long as is allotted to me, and that's okay. I'll be tired, but no more than I would have if I'd fought it, and some day it will all be a dim memory.

But the edges on the sleeves for that sweater won't.