My son is still miserable. He is coughing and bleh-uh-huh-gack-horking all over the place, and I feel awful for him.

I am, however, enjoying the lack of rambling monologues. He's too sick to talk. I have not heard any dinosaur factoids or pensive speculations about the extracurricular activities of Thomas and Percy in days. Ah yes, there is a special place in hell for me.

He just wants me to lay on the couch and hold him, which has been detrimental for my laundry, but! Score one for my Lazy, who loves her any excuse to plop on the couch and watch TiVo'd Queer Eye in the middle of the morning.

I'm also very clean, thanks to the many showers I've taken, brought on by the multiple spewings I've deflected/absorbed/caught.

But I'm worried about my kid. He's just a pathetic lump, and if you've watched the video of my son I posted a while back, you'll know that it's not in his nature to chill and get well.

I just glanced in the mirror, and the good news is: dark circles make my eyes look more blue. I don't need no stinkin' sleep.

While I was leaning on the bathroom counter, putting my warpaint on, my youngest stood next to me and warbled "Oy! Shampoo! Oy! Shampoooooo. Pee-yoooo! Shampoopie!"

Yeah, poopie is funny. It just is.

And I don't have a point. But that's probably good, too, since I am likely to accidently poke myself with pointy things right now.

Tra la la!