My left temple throbs, shoots of pain coursing behind my eye and along the left side of my skull. I grind my teeth against the ache, an old habit that I stop as soon as I notice.

Hana’s cries build in her throat as she arches her back, sliding down my lap. Baby melt down. There’s still an hour to bedtime, but her body clock doesn’t seem to notice. Her tantrum runs its course, ending with her across the room, deciding whether she wants to cry again or come back to my lap.

The only light in the room comes from Project Runway on the big screen. It lands softly on her features. She’s thinned a lot since last Halloween’s pictures. She had been 7-8 months old, her chubby cheeks filling out her bunny hood. Adorable and tiny.

She has hair now. An eventuality that I’m not ashamed to be excited about. Her cheeks are slimmer, the fullness shifting higher to her cheekbones. When she smiles a generous row of teeth appear.  People say she looks like me, but I see a lot of her dad in her.

She’s not smiling now. She points at the t.v. The visible side of her mouth curves comically down, like the face of a sad clown. She begins to cry, the sound low and pathetic. It’s good to be thankful for small blessings. I’m just glad she isn’t screaming again. I gather her back into my lap, adding Cadence to my empty hip when she wanders near.

Cadence takes dress-up very seriously. Her pink fairy get up is cute, with streams of sequins, matching wings, and a short skirt that flares like a bell. Cadence pretends to fall onto my shoulder, receiving a stream of giggles from Hana. Cadence repeats it to an encore of excitement from her sister. They shift, they slap each other, they cry, they hug….

The clock in the corner of the t.v. says it’s just a few minutes to bed time. Again, small blessings.

“Okay, ladies, let’s go kiss Daddy.”

Hana is good with cues. She slides from my lap, her lips protruded in an exaggerated pre-pucker that extends beyond her button nose. Cadence is soon to follow, gearing up for a race destined in her favor. I brush the recliner with a promise to return soon with a couple of pain relievers dissolving in my stomach. Perhaps there’ll be time and room on my lap for editing later.

One can only hope.

Hana’s persistent cries grow hoarse from her bedroom.  They quiet and die.  The juice must not be worth the squeeze with a soar throat.  Soon I’ll creep back in, retrieve the blankets she’s thrown outside the crib, and tuck her butt-protruding form in their warmth.

We play this game twice every day: nap time and bedtime.  It doesn’t change much.  Every so often, I’ll find one surviving blanket wrapped around her.  It’s her favorite, the patchwork, cuddle quilt that my sister sent the Christmas before she was born.  So far, it’s bearing its abuse well, the seams still crisp and whole.

She’s been tucking her little fist just under the front lip of her diapers, for comfort or warmth.  If there’s no waistband in her way, she discards the obstacle entirely.  I’ve avoided putting her in nightgowns since the three nights I found her bare bummed, her diapers topping the pile of blankets beside her bed.  Then, there was the smear incident, but that taught me a different lesson entirely.

My jaw clicks as I attempt to yawn away the mute button on my left ear.  No dice.  With the fevers, congestion, and soar throats abundant in our family this week, this little ailment doesn’t feel so threatening.  Hana’s poor button nose is red and chapped around the nostrils.  Cadence limits her playful personality to a reclined position, laughing when her voice sounds funny, and crying when her throat hurts.

Winter has come with sickness.  They do go hand in hand at our house.  Frost tipped the taller blades of grass this morning with snow blowing onto the deck the day before.  My favorite new tree, the precocious midget nectarine I fondly call Amelia, is turning a pleasing shade of gold.  Her fellow trees are still debating whether to drop leaf forever or follow her example.

The fresh chill brings a sadness with it.  I can’t wait for Spring.