There's something magical about 2 a.m.
That's the hour when my almost adult teenager's voice sounds more like the child when he doesn't feel quite right. (Of course, that's when my diagnosing skills are at their most bizarre as I throw the first 47 diagnostic questions at him. I wouldn't be surprised to hear myself tell him it's just PMS, take an ibuprofen and go back to bed.) Regardless, here we sit. Waiting. Hoping. And trying to pretend that the workday does not start again in just a few hours. Sigh.