I don't know if my haggard, weary expression, rumpled hair and smudged glasses, or coat thrown hastily over my pajamas clued her in. More likely it was the fact that it was after midnight on a Saturday night at Wal-Mart, and I was buying a humidifier and Vicks Vap-o-rub.

"Somebody sick at your house," the checker, whose nametag said "Sheryl", said. It was a statement, not a question, but I answered anyway.

"My baby," I said, feeling every bit as weary as I looked.

***

Charlotte is sick. She's had a persistent, hacking cough for a while now. I'm ashamed to say how long. I guess it started as a normal cold before Christmas. Then, she seemed momentarily better when we got back to Ohio after the New Year. But I'm wondering now if it never actually went away.

Last week she had a fever, and some diapers whose contents were suspended somewhere between the states of liquid and solid. This weekend, her poor nose was so stuffed up that she would snore herself awake almost hourly at night, and wouldn't nap at all. Hence the midnight humidifier purchase. If she's still as bad tomorrow, we'll bring her to the doctor.

What is it about sick kids that makes everyone bust out their horror stories? If my baby has a runny nose, I want to hear "common cold," not "my nephew had that and they thought it was nothing and it turned out to be THE BUBONIC PLAGUE!" Charlotte does not as of yet have any supperating buboes, so I think we dodged that bullet. But, seriously, why, people? I'm worried enough rocking my baby back to sleep for the fifth time that night. I don't need to be worrying about pneumonia or the whooping cough or anything else I can't do anything about until daybreak anyway.

Now watch: we'll go to the doctor and she'll have pneumonia. If you need the address to which to send my Mother of the Year award, just email me.