More sicker

As if the jackarse's car alarm going off at 2:22 in the morning wasn't bad enough, Ryan awoke at 4:00 with sputters and whimpers, so I went in to check on him. He wasn't crying, just rubbing the his eyes with the back of his hands and grimacing. When I went to pick him up, he was on fire. 103-degree temperature. Which, I thought, was the danger zone. So I did what any blue-blooded American Dad would do:
I went to Mommy.
She gave him some Motrin, and I let him lay with us for a while, not falling asleep, and still not fussing, chatting away, very matter-of-fact. I finally put him back in his crib when his temp was back down to 100, and got him to sleep about 5:30, and I'm up, what the hell, may as well get ready for work.
Ainsley was feeling like hell, too, so I was determined to come home early to take care of them.
Unfortunately, at 1:30, I started scrambling to work an overdue tasker that we had never received, so I didn't get home until around 5:15 -- I changed clothes, watered the seedlings, and Ainsley handed me Erin and went to bed.
Two and a half hours later, with a meal barely into Ryan, a fussy Erin walked all the way down Pocomoke, and a disastrous looking main floor of the house, Erin was through with me and needed Mommaries. If you follow. Still amazed that Ainsley ever does anything. Eat, tidy, self-hygiene. How does she do that with no free hands?