Andrew, our second oldest, at age three, when he wore overalls and slept in his racecar bed Let me tell you, this was a dark and stormy night, of another kind. Sitting across from my three-year-old son at the dinner table, I tilted my head, like our Yorkie when she is trying to understand what we’re saying. “Does Andrew look a little green?” I asked my husband. He glanced up from his pasta. “He looks fine. If he was sick, he wouldn’t have eaten his dinner.” The plate still had a mound of squiggly noodles, his favorite. He ate about half. His five-year-old brother, Stephen, continued his car noises in between mouthfuls. He looked fine. Sounded fine. “Andrew, do you feel ok?” “My tummy hurts.” He scrunched his little nose and pushed the plate away as if it were his enemy or a serving of his most hated vegetable, broccoli. Pale skin with a green hue isn’t cute, especially on a three-year-old. By now I...