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Yesterday, I stayed home with a sick Simon.
Fever put a slight damper on his usual manic qualities, and he actually sat next to me, allowed himself to be covered with a blanket and watched an entire television show.
It was 20 minutes long, but still! 20 whole minutes of mommy-toddler cocoon, and the best part — the best part! — was that he let me hold his hand and stroke his pudgy little fingers.
I softly ran my fingers over the top of his hand, and I noticed he has a little freckle just at the base of his ring finger.
That freckle just about killed me.
By three years old, I knew every inch of the other two’s bodies. I had stroked, tickled and kissed every part of them. I knew every freckle, mole and blemish.
But even getting Simon to cooperate with a diaper change is difficult. He never sits down long enough to be examined by his mommy’s curious fingers.
Makes me wonder what other cuteness I’m missing.

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So last week, while I was ending my short tour as a single parent, I got food poisoning.

Yeah, yeah, it was no fun and I was tired after being in the bathroom all night. My nanny came anyway so I could get some sleep after I was done regurgitating my favorite D’Amico and Sons salad (hard-boiled egg, bacon, olives, stinky cheese). In the end, it didn’t turn out so badly. At least I got to put the kids to bed for an extra night.

It turned out fine, except for this teeny, tiny little bit.

I blew my nose today, and it felt a little weird. So I opened the tissue and had a look (oh, don’t tell me you never do that).

Guess what I found?