"Call me if anything happens and I'll come right home—so little as a slight fever change, call. me. Alright, I love you both." I kiss the feverish forehead of our one year old daughter, Tabitha, then your lips before waving goodbye.

I step outside to the cold London air and let out a quiet sigh—how am I supposed to go about my day knowing that my sweet babygirl is sick?

To summarise, the past four days our little bundle of joy has been sick—fever, runny nose, coughing, the works. We've taken her to multiple GP's but they all say the same thing, "it's just a cold, she'll be good as gold in a week or two" But I can't help but worry. I was supposed to be in the studio recording my new album these last couple of days, but I couldn't bring myself to leave. Today, you finally told me to get my ass back into work, so I (albeit reluctantly) agreed.

Just as I'm climbing into my car, I peer up at the second story window—Tabitha's nursery. My heart melts as I see her peaking over the railings of her crib and watching down on me leave with that adorable pout on her face.

Before my brain can fully register what I'm doing, I'm headed back inside, hastily tossing my keys onto the entryway table and taking two steps at a time to reach Tab's room. "You know babe, I think I'm also getting sick" I huff, grabbing your hand and placing it against my clearly not fevered forehead.