That's what it started out as, anyhow.

Or maybe it started out as that overreaching gastrointestinal microbe that threatened to make our family host Christmas in the crapper (literally).

Whatever the case, we had hoped it was just the residual effects of teething: Cranky, check; runny nose, check; low tolerance for just about everything that doesn't go his way. CHECK, PLEASE!

He hasn't got an ounce of patience for the hat that covers his eyes, or the four seconds it takes you to figure out that he wanted a bite of your toast, or the removal of any object from his hand ... even if all your doing is moving it to his other hand.

No. Patience.

And that's not like him.

As of today, even with his jamming both fists into his mouth and the visible protrusion of molars in his upper gum, it is apparent that he has a whopper of a cold now that the coughing and sneezing has set in.

Sure, he's still a whirling dirvish. He's still able to eat and sniffle and drink all in one fell swoop. (Well, unless there's a sneeze and the eating and drinking turn into spraying and splattering ). But he's still just a miserable, draining ball of phlegm.

I'm beginning to think winter and toddlerhood go together like a goldfish and snowshoes.