One might think by now I'd have the sick child thing down.

One might think alarm bells would sound when I'm scurrying to leave the house and find him in his room, at 10 a.m., tucked into bed with his knees folded beneath his bum. Trying, he says, "to sweep."

But it doesn't trigger anything more than momentary surprise.

Maybe this is a new phase?

OR maybe he is just cranky and didn't want to head out into the cold. He's like me, this child, stubborn.

I thought he might also be just a smidgeon put out by the door his sister closed in his face so she could have some "private time" to play on this, the second snow day of her kindergarten year.

He didn't feel warm. He didn't seem sick. He had eaten breakfast at the crack of dawn and then tore through his toys, scattering them with the toddler equivilent of gale-force winds, until it was nearly time to pack up and head to the sitter's house.

That's what I thought at least as my thoughts raced past the moments at hand.

I had things to do, places to go before I got to my final destination: work.

I didn't get the call to come and get him. Our babysitter called his father.

She knew I was working late and wanted to spare me the fruitless anticipation, knowing that it would be hours before I could go and snuggle with my feverish boy.