That faint rasp you hear is my son.
He has a sore throat, and his usually chirpy voice has been reduced to a high-pitched croak.
Yep, our mobile germ incubator has brought home yet another virus this cold/flu season. I believe we're up to about 1,000, but I might've overlooked a few. So far, we've missed out on ebola and the plague, but I think that's mostly a matter of luck.
I'm already accustomed to acting as his simultaneous translator, turning mo-go mo-go into "locomotive," or fashee yites into "flashing lights" for those who don't happen to share a little boy's obsession with trains and trucks.
But now everything comes out as pip pip, which my brain immediately interprets as, "Quick, Mommy, I'm drowning in snot! Tissue needed on the double, woman."
Actually, requests for tissues usually come out more like a frantic, teary aaaiiieeeee!!! Shoo-shoooo!
I'm not really sure what pip pip means, to be honest.
He could be decrying the woeful lack of flu vaccines due to government incompetence, or describing his take on the need for nationalized health care, or debunking the old wives' tale that Vitamin C bolsters the immune system. He's a smart kid, for a pipsqueak. Ahem.
To my limited, sleep-deprived brain, I numbly file his mouse calls under the catch-all category of primal noises designed to trigger the ol' maternal instinct. Unfortunately for Minitaur, my maternal instinct prodded me to plop him in front of a fire truck video and disappear onto the blogosphere for a bit.
A pity too, since it's a lovely California day and I'm in the mood to take him to the playground. When I asked him about it, he nuzzled close to my face and coughed violently at my nose. I took that to mean no.
I hear some squeaking downstairs. Either a door hinge needs oiling or I'm about to get a critique of my mothering skills.