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.