:: Spot mopping. And the spot gets picked like this: Jameson coughs, chokes on phlegm, and then projectile vomits all over. And then I mop.

:: Looking down to see that something in my pocket has leaked through my jeans. What in the world?… Ah. Right. A wet, gross tissue. Nice.

:: Putting little man in the ergo and going for a walk — and listening to his little three-note song, feeling his little head resting on my back, and then two little hands reaching around to hold mine. For the whole walk.