Right now, she's asleep and I'm having a midnight snack of cheese crackers and wine (no comma - we keep it prole here at Dr2165 Industries). It took us about a week to figure it out because, at first, her only symptoms were red cheeks and waking up at 4am (normally, she sleeps straight through the night for ten or eleven hours, a habit she picked up during her first month; one might not be mistaken if the conclusion taken here is that sloth is genetic). But once she filled a diaper, her pants, her blanket, and, hyperbolically, her room roughly an ankle deep with a crop dusting, we figured it was time to call the doctor. The first diagnosis was something called Fifth disease, so named because it was the fifth disease listed at some point in history. She's kept at it, and now they're saying it's not Fifth disease, but rather "a virus that's going around." Other than the occasional radioactive diaper, though, she's her normal cute self all day long. No fever, no pain, just red cheeks, intermittent sleep (Many parents are used to this. However, we've been spoiled rotten and I'm starting to feel like Ed Norton at the beginning of Fight Club), and toxic sludge. Look out.