Since Wednesday evening (during which Powergirl was up all night), we’ve crafted our lives around L’s routine of antibiotics, Benadryl and Ibuprofen. We also have taken turns walking the house at night, so the baby can sleep on our shoulders (she’s so congested, this is the only way she can actually breathe).

While the medicine seems to be working, this morning we received another curveball: The antibiotic is causing a nasty rash all over L’s body.

And so, a new cycle—with entirely different medicine—is about to begin.

Considering this is L’s first significant health hiccup, the entire experience has been a learning process for all three of us. Some thoughts (and questions):

• No matter how painful a double ear infection is, it must be ten times worse to have a double ear infection and not be able to communicate well enough to tell your momma or daddy where it hurts. The poor thing.
• We have called our health care provider’s advice nurses five times in the last 72 hours. Is this a lot? Is this standard? Are we being delinquent? I wonder.
• L hates hates hates it when I wipe her nose. Why? At what point will she not mind?

Oh, and one more thing. While I hate that the baby has been so drowsy and sleepy, I admit that I’ve thoroughly loved the way she’s fallen asleep on my chest the last few days. They’re a throwback to her first few months on Earth, when she’d nap that way all the time. I know she’ll get sick lots of times throughout her childhood. The chest-plants, however, are something we may never see again.

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.

My symptoms arrived Wednesday evening, following a long run at the gym. Her symptoms came on in full effect this afternoon, complete with sniffling, sneezing and a ton of snot.

At times, the poor child sounded like a purring cat when she breathed.

And the whole sleeping thing? Well, let’s just say she’s been in her crib for about three hours as I write this, and she’s awakened five times over that span (we were preparing for a long night).

Despite her first official illness, our little baby was her usually chipper self for most of the day. She army-crawled after the cordless phone. She giggled at me when I sang to her during mealtimes. She also tossed her usual squeals and grunts in the direction of the cat; no matter what’s going in L’s life, little Coomer always seems to elicit a smile.

Still, I couldn’t help but spend most of the evening feeling awful. I had the cold first; now L has it. The evidence is almost irrefutable: I made my baby sick.

The rational part of my brain understands that the more frequently she gets sick in these early stages, the better her immune system will be when she heads off to pre-school or kindergarten (or music class) and interacts with other kids (and their germs).

For my heart, however, this knowledge doesn’t make the reality any easier at all.

Here I sit, congested as all hell and blowing my nose like a banshee, yet all I can think about is my little girl tossing and turning in the next room. If there were a way to take on her germs, snot and congestion so she wouldn’t have to suffer, I’d do it without hesitation. I’m guessing this feeling is what parenthood is about.

Naturally, I completely wigged out about the dangers of being sick around L. Panic reached a fever pitch this afternoon, when I found literature from our doctors that included one of the most untenable suggestions ever: “If at all possible, avoid kissing your baby on the face or hands.”

I truthfully think it’d be easier to eat rabbit eyeballs.

Every hour of every waking day, pretty much all I want to do is smooch my little girl. Now, due to a sore throat and a light sniffle, I must refrain?

For her sake, I tried to resist this evening. Every time she did something that merited a kiss (basically, this includes most of the things she does), I forced myself to smooch her feet or belly instead of her little cheeks. Every time she tried to stick her fingers near my face or nose, I caught them and playfully turned them away.

Even when she was at her cutest, conducting an imaginary orchestra with her spoon during dinner (sweet potatoes, in case you’re interested), I somehow managed to hold back my onslaught of smooches, opting instead for a laugh and a gentle tousle of her hair.

By the end of the night, she totally knew something was up. Before bed, she kept bonking her face into mine, as if to say, “Kiss me, Daddy.”

I couldn’t hold back any longer. I stole a kiss.

I know, I know: It was a selfish smooch. And yes, if the baby ends up getting sick I’m single-handedly responsible. But this whole “avoid kissing [them]” thing is ridiculous! Over the course of her little life, we’re all bound to get sick too frequently to abstain completely. There are just some things we parents should never have to give up.