I remember that my husband mentioned something about fiddling with my phone yesterday. I should have taken him more seriously

“Mommy,” my three-year-old whispers. “When are you getting up?”

I roll over and make myself comfortable, nudging my feverish baby over as I do so.

“When my alarm goes off,” I mumble, trying not to sound grumpy after a long night up with the baby.

I become aware of the angle of the sunlight in the room. Something’s not right. But my alarm hasn’t gone off.

“Ask Abba what time it is,” I say, and bury my head deeper into my pillow. She patters off. Alarms must be more accurate than the sun. Or not.

“Abba says it’s seven and twenty,” my daughter informs me.

“What?” That’s a screech, and it comes from me as I perform a leap that would make any gymnast jealous. “Your bus!”

I frantically check my phone’s screen. It reads 5:19. I remember that my husband mentioned something about fiddling with my phone yesterday. I should have taken him more seriously.

Rushing into the living room, I thrust my phone at my husband. He’s lying on the couch, resting his very injured knee. “You can’t play with my phone! Now everyone is going to be late!”

I proceed to run around like a madwoman making lunches and getting myself, children, and feverish baby ready. Until it hits me. Baby’s got fever; she can’t go to the babysitter. Someone emits a wail. Maybe it’s me.