1 a.m.

I am awakened by the slap-slap-slap of the Wee One's feet on the tile floor.  He comes armed with all his bedtime accoutrement.  He doesn't say a word.  His cough expresses everything.  He has inherited my sharp cough.  He climbs into our bed; I make sure he is on my side, as to not disturb Tim.  His chest and torso contract, trying to force the cough out.  He desperately wants to sleep, but the constant coughing prevents him.  After twenty minutes, I carry him back to his own bed.  He snuggles in, resting his head on his froggy pillow.  The coughing starts to slow, and his breathing deepens.  He will return to sleep soon, thankfully.