Poor baby!

Well, 8 ½ months was a good run, right?

We had no complaints. Phoebe was the healthiest, happiest baby ever. She slept through the night. Life was great …

But our run ended this weekend. Phoebe is officially dealing with her first bout of sickness -- a good, old-fashioned cold.

Beginning Friday night, she’s been sleeping barely 30, maybe 40 minutes at a time, before she wakes up screaming again. Then, it takes us another 30, maybe 40 minutes to get her back to sleep. Big tears stream down her face. The fact she’s teething probably doesn’t help either.

All day we watched as she moved between playing and staring blankly from under her droopy eyelids -- because she was so tired. Her nose was running off her face there was so much snot coming out of it. Then, there was her incessant whimper serving notice that not all was well in her world.

It’s aching to see her so uncomfortable, and yet there’s something so adorable about watching her fight through it. All of it has helped us truly understand the origin of the phrase “poor baby!”

I’m afraid Kates and I are in for another rough night … Then she’s going to see the doctor first thing in the morning.

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