I've heard it called the day of rest, and I've heard it called simply "The Bad Day". It was certainly feeling more like the latter than the former, as I stalked half-dressed through the front room. There were an unusual number of things requiring attention.

It's not like me to work from home on that particular day of the week, or in fact to work at all, but that day had the system downtime available to do what I needed done. My client's client was installing the work I'd done over the past four months, and I was getting the usual array of questions. Any other bad day, I'd have taken someplace else, but my bride was testing her just-repaired knee in a way that made me more uneasy with each step I took away from her. So I zoomed from one thing to the next as my urges to protect my wife and my work waxed and waned.

Having missed a client call while in the shower, I was proceeding to the keyboard which could help solve that particular unusual question, with all the haste I could muster. As I made the first turn out of the front room, I stopped at the sound of a voice.

"Fwench fwies."

I'd not noticed my son as I went past, him laying among cushions on the daybed by the window. He has his limits, tagged at various times as mild, moderate, and severe. He doesn't get that mommy is hurting, or that daddy has this thing they call a job, and he also lacks the language to discuss what it is that he sees. He just knows that on this bad day, all his people seem distracted and tense, and no one is doing the things he does understand.

I heard him say that, and almost kept moving - he knows his diet doesn't include french fries anymore. I can't encourage him asking, because there's no leeway to say yes, and no good way to otherwise halt the conversation. There are no negotiations or threats effective at that language level, and you'd be shocked at the things I've tried to be able to say that for sure.

Still, I found my feet stopping and reversing, and I was moving to where he lay before I realized what I was doing. I took a second to stretch my still-drying self beside him on the daybed, and I looked him directly in the eye.

He looked right back, listening to me more intently than anyone else ever has. I had no idea what I was going to say when my mouth opened.

"Hey, buddy, what are you saying? You know you can't have those - your tummy can't take them anymore. I think you just say that because you used to when you were a kid. I think you just say that when you're upset."

Small changes in his expression acknowledged my point. Well, I thought so, anyway - his whole family makes that exact face sometimes.

"I'm sorry you're upset, but I understand. Your mommy has to lie down a lot, and daddy isn't much help, is he? I have to go help some other people right now, but I wanted to tell you that you don't have to be upset. You're still my favorite boy."

Unexpectedly, he spoke back.

"Inna ho whie werrrd."

"That's right, buddy, in the whole wide world. That's how I always say it, and that's how I always mean it. Now you stay here and watch the day, and daddy and mommy will get some other stuff done."

He lay back with a pleased expression on his face, and bowed his chin toward his chest. I hadn't known until then that he'd found it likable, but I was happy to kiss him on the forehead, again, as I always do.

"OK, buddy, I'm running again. You be good."

And up I bounced, leaving him content, and off I went - to deal with the unusual things requiring my attention. Eventually, most of those worked out well enough, but honestly, there's just the one thing from yesterday I remember well enough to talk about.

Turns out, not all of them are bad days.