Her long hair somehow always finding its way right into your nose. And it stinks. Did some of her vomit get on it, you ask yourself, as you lie awake at 2 am. Bad Dr. Seuss, you think to yourself: Vomit get on it. You chuckle at your own joke, but not too loud. You don't want to wake her up. Poor thing needs rest and finally just got to sleep again.
She snores as loud as you remember her snoring. You hear the effort in her breathing. Her stuffed nose and scratchy throat making all sorts of strange, horrible noises. Sounds which reinforce the idea in your mind that you are not going to fall asleep any time soon.
And her breath doesn't smell great either. It carries a certain weight and travels up to your face, through her hair and into your nostrils.
You are afraid to move at all, the slightest flinch may startle her and wake her up. You are afraid to scratch that agonizing itch on your forehead, or push her hair away from your nose.
Your left arm and shoulder ache from the weight of her stuffed-up, surprisingly heavy head.
How is it possible you can smell her feet from where they are, under the sheets and blankets? But you do. You can.
How can such a little kid have such awful smelling feet?
It's shaping up to be the longest night of your life. But you don't care.
Because this sick, smelly, uncomfortable 9-year old is simply the most beautiful, wonderful, sweet thing in your entire world. So you smile to yourself as you try again to fall asleep.