Being the Breakfast of Champions

On a Tuesday evening in January, my 5-year-old daughter, Abby and I were making a salad for dinner when my co-worker Dennis called. Not wanting to interrupt preparations, I put him on speaker-phone.

"I just found out that Carlene Sullivan was appointed to the project board, and they want our presentation first thing in the morning," he said.

"Carlene Sullivan? She eats punks like us for breakfast," I replied.

"I know it. We're staying late here to put everything in order, and we were hoping you'd come in and present tomorrow."

"Isn't there another way?" I asked.

"Like what?"

"Okay, I'll do it," I told him and returned to my "Abby time."

I told my husband at supper about needing to get to work early the next morning, and Phil agreed to take Abby to school. That night, after Abby was in bed, we had a talk.

Carlene Sullivan was possibly the sharpest person in our business, and a terror to present a project to. I had worked with her for five years, and she never missed a beat. If there was a hole in your research, she'd find it. If there was information you didn't have, she'd ask for it. She wasn't malicious, just very, very thorough. I didn't know anyone who relished the opportunity to have her demolish their proposal.

"Phil, Carlene is going to chew me up and spit me out tomorrow," I told him.

"It probably won't be that bad, honey. You know what to expect, and that should help."

Just then, Abby joined us on the couch. "What are you doing up?" I asked.

"I don't feel good."

I felt her forehead. She didn't seem hot, but I got up and took her temperature anyway, just to be sure. No fever. Phil made her some chamomile tea, and we put her back to bed, then hit the sack ourselves.

Three a.m., Abby at my bedside, "I don't feel good."

Again, I check, and again, no fever. Back to bed for her. Back to bed for me.

Five a.m., and the alarm on my Blackberry is blasting away, telling me it's time to face the music. I check on Abby on my way to the kitchen for coffee. A minute later, she's calling me.

"Mommmmmmy, I'm sick." Just what I needed. I hurried back to the bedroom to get Phil's help, Abby whining in the background the whole time.

"Phil, Abby's sick. I have to go."

"Okay," he answered, and climbed out of bed.

Five minutes later, as I double-checked my briefcase, the sound of my young daughter's terrified screams reached my ears. I rushed to her room.

"Oh, Mommy," she cried, "You have to stay with me."

"Honey, Daddy is right here with you. I have a big day at work."

"No!" She wailed. "Don't go!" Tears rolled down her pretty cheeks.

"What's the matter, Abby?"

"Mommy, you can't let Carlene have you for breakfast. I need you,"