Jacob and I are sharing some sort of illness at the moment. I can't quite tell if it's a cold on its way to getting better, or if it's a warning shot fired over my bow and I'm about to be subjected to a full tactical assault. I sound sick, all nasal and lacking certain key consonants, but I mostly feel okay, except for the vertigo and fever.

Likewise with the boy, I think. His ability to clarify symptomology, at 2, isn't all that developed just yet. I do know that he reacts to illness completely, 180-degree opposite from how I react. Me, I give serious consideration to constructing a bunker underneath the house, stocking it with chocolate, soft clothes and a few trusted DVDs, and hiding out in solitary confinement until I start to feel human again. And maybe for a few days longer, even, if my offspring have been particularly trying lately. But Jacob wants all snuggles, all the time, regardless of minor details like horrifying nasal output or the skin-crawling-ness of a fever.

So he's extra-clingy today, despite all of those dryer sheets we've been rubbing all over him, which set him up for an impressive feat of gravity and aim this evening. Willem was getting something out of the fridge, and Jacob was perfecting his Whine-and-Hover technique. Willem moved to close the door, Jacob overbalanced... and landed, diaper-first, precisely into the cat's water bowl.

A good mother would not have been as amused at this as I was.

Later, Willem tossed a towel toward the washing machine, which is still in my kitchen until I get the motivation and energy and presence of mind during business hours to get a plumber or three here to give an estimate on putting in a second bathroom-slash-laundry room. (Because I did get an estimate a while ago, but then when I called the guy back last month, it turns out that he had died a few days ago. Which apparently makes scheduling difficult.) The towel also landed directly in the cat's water.

As did my foot, later, when I was getting a glass out of the dishwasher.