Beep. Beep. Beep. I clumsily search the nightstand for my phone. Beep. Beep. Beep. Rolling to my side, I reluctantly open my eyes while grabbing the offending object. With a tap, the noise stops.

Finally, silence, but it’s not bliss. Everything hurts. My body aches, my throat is sore, and my head feels like it’s stuck in a vice. What the hell? I went to bed exhausted last night, but I figured all the activity with Miles had wiped me out. My little guy can do that. But it’s more than that; I feel like I’m dying.

Groggily, I fiddle with my phone to check the time—9:15. Shit. With a rambunctious five-year-old, 7:30 is what I consider sleeping in, even under the weather; I’ve been sleeping way too long. I have to check on Miles, and I can’t ignore the niggling inside me that I’m missing something.

Once in the bathroom, I rummage the cabinets looking for cold meds, or anything that will alleviate the pain. So far, the one positive is that it’s Saturday, which means no rushing to get him dressed, fed, and off to school on top of somehow getting myself ready for work.

Although, the weekend presents another set of challenges because my little guy is active. He won’t want to stay indoors while I lie on the couch and die. I outwardly groan. Today is going to be a long day.

After reading the recommended dose on the bottle of decongestant, I pop double the amount into my mouth and pray for relief. I need coffee, to check on my son, and head back to bed until the drugs kick in. God, I hope they kick in soon.

A bitter, smoldering odor creeps into my nostrils the closer I get to the kitchen. I quicken my steps, and my stomach churns as my mind conjures all the disasters a child could get into without a parent to watch over them.

Entering the kitchen, the smell of burned toast hits me. My little man is standing on a kitchen chair with a butcher knife in his tiny hand. The toaster is smoking behind him on the counter, and maple syrup is running down the cabinet and onto the floor.

“Miles!”

My shriek startles both of us. I clutch my chest as Miles jerks and swivels in my direction, his eyes wide in surprise. His movements are so fast that he almost falls off the chair. I lunge, expecting to catch him, but he somehow steadies himself.

With a sigh of relief, I cautiously near him, not wanting to surprise him again. Adrenaline hums through my body, my aches forgotten as the fear of what could have happened—not only just now but also while I was sleeping—run through my mind.

My eyes never waver from my almost four-foot, knife-wielding boy as I wonder why he couldn’t just stay put in front of the TV until I got up?

“Mom, you scared me.” He chuckles and grins, revealing the gap where his two front teeth should be.

“What are you doing?” I take one step closer, still out of arm’s reach.

“I’m making breakfast. I’m starving, and you wouldn’t get up.”

“What are you doing with the knife?”

He waves the sharp blade around in a questioning gesture, and my breath catches in my throat. 

“Honey, just listen to me. Stop moving.”

My pleading tone causes his brow and nose to scrunch as he cocks his head to the side, staring at me in confusion.

“You’re acting weird. I was making waffles.” He puffs out his chest and swings the knife back and forth. 

“Miles, please do your mother a favor and stop moving.” Like a hostage negotiator, my voice is calm and even as I take another step closer. Almost there.

“Sure.” He shrugs, arching his little brows with a look that says he thinks I’m a crazy woman.

He stops his erratic movements and with one final step, I remove the knife from his grasp and dump the weapon into the sink.

“I made waffles, but they got stuck in the toaster,” he babbles while I shake my head to rid my mind of the vivid, scary what ifs. “And you told me never to put my fingers in there because I’d get burned. So, I was using the knife to get it out.”

“Little man.” I lift him off the chair and exhale the breath I’ve been holding. “You should never put a knife in a toaster. You could get electrocuted.”

“But, Mom, you do it all the time.” Dammit. Sure, I’ve done it, but with a butter knife, not a cleaver. Another strike out for Cait! Way to set a great example.

“What’s a eluctued?” He asks.

I squeeze my eyes shut and rack my brain to come up with a good explanation for my reckless behavior. I’ve got nothing.

Crouching down, so we’re eye level, his gray eyes sparkle like his smile, and my heart melts. Even when he’s challenging, I’m reminded how lucky I am to have him.

“Little man, e-lec-tro-cuted is…” I come up blank. I didn’t think this through. I don’t know how to explain the word without scaring him or causing more questions. Going for the easy way out, I skip it all together. “Both Mommy and you should never put a knife in the toaster. It’s dangerous to stick anything in there but bread. Also, it’s dangerous to use a knife. You could have cut yourself or worse. You should have woken me.”

“I tried,” he whines, stomping his foot. “But you wouldn’t get up, and I was hungry!”

His voice rises, and red inches up his neck as his tantrum unfolds in front of me. Shit, I can’t handle this without coffee. I’d rather face a firing squad than deal with one of his infamous melt downs.

“I know you’re hungry. I’m sorry.” Wrapping him in my arms, I place him onto my lap. “You can have whatever you want for breakfast.”

As the words leave my mouth, I realize my goof, but I’m cranky, ill, and desperate. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with my son’s hunger and the fallout from my neglect. Right now, I’d give him anything.

“I want donuts,” he demands. “And ice cream.”

Shit, no matter how many talks we have about what is acceptable for breakfast, it never sticks. Funny how he picks up my bad habits with ease, but the good ones, like choosing a healthy breakfast, not so much.

“Donuts mean we have to go out. Why don’t you pick something from what we have here? You could have yogurt parfait or eggs, or cereal.”

“That’s not fair. You said anything. C’mon, Mom.”

“Let’s have cereal, and I promise we’ll have ice cream later. How about that?” I say like the no good welcher that I am.

Now standing, I deposit him on a chair and make a beeline for the coffee maker. Caffeine will make it better, or at the very least, bearable.

“No, I want donuts and ice cream. Besides, we’re gonna be late for swimming.”

“Sugar, honey, and iced tea!” I curse. It’s my lame but necessary substitute for shit.

Today is his last swim class, and I completely forgot. He can’t miss it. If he does, he won’t get his certificate or move to the next level.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” he accuses, folding his arms and looking at me like I stole his favorite toy.

Damn, how do I fix this? The clock on the wall indicates that we have thirty minutes to be there. I glance around my kitchen and for the second time, take in the mess. Residual smoke is still wafting out of the toaster, the syrup is everywhere and the coffeemaker is mocking me for not having my shit together.

There’s no way I can make coffee, feed us, get dressed, and be there on time. And as for cleaning up this mess? I will have to deal with it later. I can hardly wait.

“Buddy, you’re in luck. Donuts it is!”

He jumps up and down with joy and I smile while cringing on the inside at his impending sugar high and inevitable crash.

“We’re going to make swimming. Let’s get dressed. I’ll race ya?”

He beams from ear to ear and eagerly nods. Whenever we’re in a rush, which is more times than not because I have a hate-hate relationship with time, we race. It’s the easiest way to get out as quickly as possible.

We dash from the kitchen, and I let him run ahead. My head’s pounding, but I chuckle as he scurries down the hall in his Spiderman PJs, his light brown curls bouncing.