"Mommy, I want breakfast." The plaintive whine from the other side of consciousness begins my day. I open an eye. No sunlight on the ceiling. No false dawn showing through the window, either. "Go back to sleep," I mumble. "The sun's not up yet."

"Mommy, I want cold subeal." I open my bleary left eye and see my son rubbing his eyes and face, stubbornly trying to wake up. My mind automatically translates: cereal. For breakfast.

"Go back to sleep, honey."

"Come rub my back, please." I can feel my body creaking as I crawl out of bed to put my son back to sleep. Anything for another hour of sleep. It's only ... 5:30 am. Make that two more hours of sleep.

"Hush little baby, don't say a word / Momma's gonna buy you a mocking bird...." I begin to sing his favorite lullaby, but start to put myself back to sleep instead. I don't think that was my plan. I quietly get up, only to be dragged back down.

"Sing to me, please," he mumbles. I start humming and nodding off... when something else awakens me.

Nothing seems wrong, I don't hear anything. Might as well go back to my nice, warm bed.

6:45 am

"Mommy, I want breakfast."

"The sun's not up," I mumble.

"Yes it is. Mommy, get up." Damn Daylight Savings. I don't know whose time it's saving; not mine, and not his.

"Here's your glasses. Put on your baftrobe. Get up Mommy." He tries to unfold my glasses and put them on my face. Not bad for a two-year-old.

"Give me a chance to wake up, will you?"

We go through this almost every morning. Do they have a factory where the kids go at night to get recharged? If so, I want to know where it is, I'll either take it over or shut it down.

I pad into the kitchen with him behind me. I feel some of last night's dinner get mashed between my toes and the carpet. Old, brown, stringy carpet. Note: clean carpet this weekend.

"Cold cereal, right?" I'm a bit bleary in the morning.

"No, I want toast!" Loudly.

Something easy would be nice. "With butter and jelly?" I say drowsily.

"No I want cereal, not toast!"

"Hot cereal or cold cereal?" I don't have the energy to argue or even yell.

"Not cereal, I want candy!"

I just love the person who invented Halloween.

"No candy," I say firmly. "Not until after Daycare."

"Ok, I want cold cereal, please." Now he sounds like the sweet little angel that everyone loves. Even me.

"Ok, go turn on the light over the table." He does this while I pour the store brand Honey-nut Cheerio type cereal into a bowl and try not to look at the general mess of my apartment.

"I want milk in it."

"I know. I'm putting milk in it. Go sit in your chair."

"I want to take it." Stubborn, trying to be independent before I'm ready for it. Sweet angel and then little devil. No wonder they call these years the "Terrible Two's".

"Sit down. Here you go. Come get me when you're done."

"I want to watch TV."

I try not to growl as I give an emphatic "NO!" and wander back to bed. We don't have enough room for real furniture, which means the TV stays in the closet except on the weekends, for Saturday Morning Cartoons.

Mmmmm. The sheets are still warm. I bury my head and am almost asleep again when..."Mommy, I'm done! Come look at my bowl. I'm done." Self-satisfaction fills his voice, happy to be doing what Mommy wants. Not letting Mommy do what Mommy wants...

That's my signal to start the coffee-maker and get him down. Then start the morning routine: brush our teeth, shower, dress... Dear Lord, don't let me be late again today, I silently pray. "Hey kiddo, you want to just get dressed or do you want to take a shower?" Please say just get dressed.

"Shower with you, Mommy." Oh well.

We shower, dress, and as I look at the clock realize that I'm five minutes behind "schedule" already. No time for even a ponytail.

"Where's my hat?" I mumble.

"I want to wear my hat too, Mommy." Argh.

"Never mind. Time to go."

"But Mommy...", the quintessential wheedling tone. How do they do that?

"Now!"

"Ok, but I need my pack-pack." Luckily, his backpack is near the door. We race to the daycare and I give him a hurried good-bye. He tries to cling to me, reluctant to let me go. I hate this part, seems like most mothers do; we all wear similar pleading expressions. Trained professionals take over. God, how I wish I was rich and out of college.

Driving to class, I glance in the rearview mirror and see my son's backpack in his carseat. Not running too late I have time to slow down and daydream a little. I realize that my son is no longer the spitting image of his father, whom I affectionately call the "Sperm Donor". Thank God. Alex deserves to look better than that bastard of a father. I guess you could say that I'm still bitter about all the promises he broke. I didn't expect him to marry me, not right out of high school. That's just to fifties. I did expect him to stick around and fulfill his half of the responsibility, though. How naive of me. There's something about stressful mornings that get me to thinking like this, especially when it takes ten minutes to find a parking space.

I park my car and wander into class and take my usual seat, dead center of the enormous lecture hall. Time to become goal-oriented student and push the "Mommy things" to the back of my mind.

In the middle of class my pager goes off. It's the daycare's number. Dear God, let everything be OK. The last time his teacher paged me, it was because he was wrestling with another little boy. I was not pleased. I tumble with him sometimes, it's no big deal. I suppose people today don't expect two year olds to enjoy physical play. I just don't understand why the daycare people get upset when little boys wrestle.

I decide to wait until class is over.

"Hello, is Cynthia there? I think she paged me. This is Alex's mom."

"Oh, wait, hold on...." The TA sounds worried, maybe Alex got hurt in another wrestling match.

"Hello, you need to come get Alex right now. He has a temperature of 102 . I can't keep him around the other children." No sympathy in her voice.

"All right, I'll be there in a little while."

"Soon, Ms. Johnson." Click. Self-righteous bitch. Oh shit! I can't miss work again.

Thoughts race through my mind as I try to figure out the best course of action. I need to call his doctor and probably take him to the Urgent Care Clinic. And I need to call my boss... and... and ... and I don't have time to deal with this!. No more dimes, quarters, or nickels. I'll make the necessary calls when I get home.

Damn! I just missed the shuttle. I run to my car, which seems like it's on the other side of campus. Oh shit, where'd I put my keys?? In my jacket pocket. Whew. As my car warms up I plan the fastest route. If I take the side streets, there are fewer lights, which are green longer than average. The light right before the daycare center is really long.

"Please, Lord, no cops," I pray, trying to not make it obvious that I'm breaking the speed limit. I hear sirens and hope it's an ambulance or fire truck. I look in the rearview mirror while pulling over to the right. My prayer was not answered. I stop at the side of the road and pull out my license, insurance, and registration. Might as well make this quick and painless. Well, quick anyway.

That ordeal over, I make a stately getaway and hope nothing life-threatening is happening. It takes me about a minute to get to the daycare. I practically run into my son's classroom. He looks sick, always a bad sign. He is curled up not doing anything and looks completely miserable.

"His temperature has risen to 103." It's Cynthia. Impersonal, cold bitch of a teacher. I ignore her.

"Come here, baby. Let's go home now." Talk about feeling like shit. He was fine this morning, how was I supposed to know that he was going to get sick?

"Mommy, I need my medicine."

"I know, sweetheart. We're going to your doctor now. She'll give you some medicine."

Good thing this University has quality care near. Thank God for health insurance. I take him to our primary health facility, Urgent Care.

I tell the check in nurse what's going on.

"My son has a fever that is continuing to rise. His daycare told me that he was given Children's Tylenol, but his fever isn't going down."

"Well, let's sign him in, who's his primary? Do you have your insurance card with you? A nurse will be here soon to take his vitals. Calm down."

I must be starting to overreact. There is no-one I can call right now, and what if ... Let's not think down that track.

"Mommy, I'm sick. I'm sleepy. I want my blanket, put me to sleep."

"Shhhhh, sweety, we're going to see a doctor and then everything will be better."

"Please take a seat while I get the paperwork done for you."

"Thank you." At least she has more compassion than the people who take care of my son everyday. A nurse finally comes to take his vitals. Oh, sweet Jesus, his temperature has risen to 104 .

"You say that he was given Tylenol earlier?" Efficient, but kind.

"Yes." Now I'm worried, the nurse is looking over her chart.

"We're going to give him an ice bath and some more Tylenol. He's going to have to stay here for a few hours. I'll get a doctor." I feel a little better, but not much. Strange how caring nurses can put one at ease.

The doctor comes in looking more concerned than the nurse. He starts to talk and I stop listening, his tone is too serious.

"Excuse me, could you repeat that?" I ask.

"When a fever rises this quickly, we fear that it may be meningitis, specifically spinal meningitis in a child so young. We're going to take a spinal tap, a urine sample, and a fecal sample, to rule out other things. Hopefully this is just a viral infection."

I consider zoning out. Spinal meningitis. Spinal tap. My baby may not be himself ever again. I can't take care of a child with meningitis.

"Ms. Johnson, are you ok?" Doctors are good at sounding concerned, and some even are.

"Can I have a sedative please?" I ask with a strained smile.

"Sorry, but we can't." Oh well. It was worth a try.

"Can I stay with him while you do the tests?"

"That's expected. Just don't faint, please," he teased. A doctor with a sense of humor. Maybe things won't be so bad after all.

"Mommy...."

"Yes, baby?"

"I want some medicine." All I can do is smile. Somehow, I have a feeling that we'll get through this.

My son is put through a battery of tests; I learn that catheters hurt toddlers just as much as they do adults --- and it's messier. The tests are exhausting for both of us.

"Mommy, I'm sleepy, put me to sleep. Sing to me."

"I wish I could, honey. I can rub your back." He's in a hospital crib with wires attached to his chest and an IV in his arm. I'm afraid to touch him without hurting him. "Put me to sleep" usually means: Hold me in your arms until they feel numb and I feel safe and happy. I look at my watch out of habit. 6:00 pm. Eight hours have passed. I realize that I'm tired, too. My son closes his eyes and I start to sing his favorite lullaby and rub his back.

"Hush little baby / Don't say a word...." I don't even get to finish the first line before peaceful snores cut me off. I look around for a place to sit and relax. Total exhaustion is trying to take over. And then my mind starts to go into overdrive. It's a nasty habit I have when I'm worried. I let my other worries come to the fore, which is a little better than continuing to worry about my son. I see a "to do" list in my mind's eye.

To Do List:

I drift off to sleep wondering if my life will change significantly in the next 48 hours. A nurse wakes me up the next morning. I wouldn't wish hospital chairs on my worst enemy.

"Ms. Johnson, you should go home and get some real rest. Alex will be fine for a few hours, and you'll be more help to him if you're feeling better. Go home for a few hours, take a hot bath or something. We have a few simple tests to take, and his fever is coming down. There's not much that you can do right now." Groggy, I get up and thank her, searching for my purse.

"Excuse me, but where's the nearest bathroom?" I ask.

"Down the hall and to your left."

"Thank you."

I try not to stumble down the hall. It's so disconcerting to not be woken up by a small voice demanding to be fed. I look at my watch. 6:00 am. My mind starts planning the day as I go through a quick version of my morning routine. I'll sleep until 7:30, get up, shower, make the necessary phone calls, and be back at the hospital no later than 9:00.

I get home and see the message light on my answering machine. Some good news I hope. I press the Play button, only to hear: "Carol, I'm calling to let you know that we have decided to let you go. You obviously can't be relied upon. The work that you do is good, but we need someone that we can depend on. You're just too flaky sometimes. Sorry. We'll mail your check tomorrow. If you need a reference, let me know. Good luck. "

Well, no point in calling my boss this morning. I climb into bed and try not to dream. The buzz of the alarm ... of the alarm ... of the alarm. I need to shut the alarm off! I had forgotten what it sounded like. I tumble out of bed; I must have been really tired ... readjust my glasses and start some coffee. Time to start another day. Again.

After I shower I call the daycare center to let them know that Alex will be out for an indeterminate amount of time due to illness, then I call the University in order to track down my professor. Why don't I ever keep syllabi where I can find them? No one seems to know who I'm talking about, so I ask for the number of the Chemistry Department. I finally get someone with a clue and leave voicemail for my professor.

8:45 am. Wow!, I'm actually running ahead of time. I grab my coffee and head out to my car. No need to speed today.

Back at the hospital I spend another tiring day staying out of nurses' and doctors' way while trying to keep myself and my son in a good mood. His fever seems to have broken, but they want to keep him for yet another night of observation. Please, Lord, let everything be ok, I pray silently. They let me hold my son tonight when he asks that I put him to sleep.

As I start to sing and rock he says, "Goodnight Mommy, I love you."

Alex's eyes close and his face takes on a peaceful, angelic cast.

"I love you, too, baby."

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