If you were alive in the 1970s or 1980s, surely you remember that old Carly Simon song, “Haven’t Got Time for the Pain.”

Those lyrics could be the story of my life since the last post on this blog.

Saturday night, after a long run in 90-degree heat, this summer cold that nabbed me during our Colorado trip metastasized into one serious mother. Sniffles, snots, congestion—you name it, the cold has brought it on.

I was up most of that first night sniffling and clearing my throat. Since then, through my Day- and Ny-Quil induced haze, I’ve pretty much felt like a pile of, um, organic mulch.

Not that my state of being (or any parent’s state of being) matters one bit. I’ve learned the hard way that as a father who is tasked with caring for a little human, it doesn’t matter how lousy you feel because the baby always is No. 1.

The biggest challenge of this equation came this afternoon. Fresh off a work trip during which I slept maybe two hours last night, I flew solo with L from about 3 p.m. until she went to bed. We already know how lousy I feel (but I’ll remind you again, for your sympathy). Added to the mix today: Poor little L caught my cold, too.

As a result, instead of one sniffling and sneezing Villano, there were two. And we suffered. Together.

The poor thing needed at least four dozen nose wipes over the course of the afternoon. She also required two doses of acetaminophen. She took forever to get to sleep, largely because she just couldn’t breathe. I think I finally sat down to dinner about 9:15 p.m. local time.

If you’re hating on me by this point, let’s get one thing straight: I am by no means complaining. Instead, these are thoughts, musings, reflections. Considering that I was raised as an only child, the whole concept of overcoming adversity to put the offspring first blows my mind. As Carly once sang, I simply haven’t got time for the pain.

In the end, when L beats this cold and hunkers down to defeat the next one, I’ll be ready.