Breakfast

Yesterday I started this blog by declaring that my life is amazingly wonderful and even the most mundane chores are not so bad because I'm just that happy. Well, it's all true but, honestly, who doesn't have gripes? I certainly do, every day of the week. And although right now my gripes are lessened, they are definitely still there. One of my gripes is meals -- planning them, preparing them, cooking them, cleaning them up, it all just rubs me the wrong way. The one and only thing I like about meals is eating them and I've noticed that so far, in my new life, that's not always something that happens on a regular basis.

This morning, for instance, was one of those times.

I wake up and notice it's 7:00 (whoo hoo!). My usual alarm clock, my 3-year-old son, is still sleeping (hooray!). This morning it's my 9-month-old daughter who wakes me with her sweet coos. Usually waking up at this unusually late hour would be a delight but today I have an appointment that I have to be on time for and I realize we are going to be rushed. Needing to be somewhere on time and waking up late is not a good recipe for a smooth morning, nor one where I get to eat.

I get up and drowsily walk into my daughter's room where she's smiling up at me from her crib. Such a lovely site first thing in the morning. I take her to the kitchen to get her breakfast. I put her in her high chair and scatter some Cheerios on her tray. Snacking on Cheerios always keeps her content until I can get the rest of her food ready. So far so good. I look at the clock to check the time and take note that we need to leave in 50 minutes.

I hear my son get up and I hope quietly to myself that he is in a good mood this morning. It's hit or miss with him and if this is a grumpy day there's no way we are getting out of the house in 50 minutes.

He comes into the kitchen smiling and I feel relieved, we have a chance of being on time. I greet him with a snuggle and ask him what he wants for breakfast.  This is where things start to go down hill. Fast.

"What are the choices, Mommy?" he asks in his not-quite-awake whine. He finishes his question with a pathetic whimper.

"Bagel, cereal, toast, fruit, yogurt," I know as soon as I finish the list I've given too many choices. Why did I ask in the first place? Why didn't I just prepare something and put it in front of him? But this insight is too little too late.

"I don't want any of those things. I want pancakes and eggs."

"We don't have time for pancakes and eggs this morning. Mommy has an appointment. Please pick one of the choices I gave you."

My son doesn't answer and I continue to get my daughter's breakfast ready and begin feeding it to her.

"Honey, if you don't pick something for breakfast Mommy is going to pick for you. I know you are going to want to watch a show and we won't have time for that if you don't eat something now."

"Okay, fine Mommy, I'll have cereal," he says in voice that sounds like he's resigned to eating cow poop for breakfast.

"Great!" I say and I get it out, putting some delicious fresh raspberries in the cereal because I know my son loves raspberries.

I place the bowl of cereal and berries on the table in front of him and take a glance at the clock. 40 minutes.

"Mommy, I wanted to do it!" my son shreaks at me.

"What did you want to do?"

"Put the berries in!" He's obviously not fully awake yet because he's half crying half delirious. "I want the berries to be in the milk, not the cereal."

I'm not exactly sure what he's asking for but I don't have time for this right now so I just get another bowl out of the cabinet, place it in front of him and tell him to do what he wants with his food just as long as he eats it. I then pause for a minute to watch him take each and every berry out of the first bowl and place it next to the bowl on the place mat. Then he proceeds to scoop all of the now soggy cereal out of the first bowl and plop it into the second bowl. With each messy plop, a little milk splatters on the table. I cringe a little with each splatter. Then, with his fingers, he places each berry back into the original bowl, and finally, scoops all the very soggy cereal back into the original bowl on top of the berries and the milk. Yuck.

"You better eat that," I tell him as I turn away to pour myself some coffee.

As I turn toward the coffee I hear my son exclaim. I turn around to see that he has spilled milk down the front of his pajama shirt and all over the table. 

"Oh no! Now I have to take off my shirt!"

Before I can help him, my son has both his shirt and pants off and is bringing them to me. Before he reaches me he trips and drops his pajamas in the dog's water bowl. I start to tell my son to leave them there so I can intercept what's about to happen next but I don't get the words out before he leans down, picks up a fully soaked pair of pajamas and runs across the kitchen, soaking the floor with dog water.

"Look, Mama, my pajamas fell in Cooper's bowl! They are wet!"

"Yes, I see. Please stop running and leave them there on the floor, okay?"

I look at the clock 20 minutes before we need to leave. I'm standing in the middle of the kitchen with a stream of dog water rushing directly toward my bare feet. I'm still in my pajamas and so are both my kids. My baby girl is fed but my son has only had a few bites of soggy cereal. I haven't had my coffee and I certainly haven't had a bite to eat.

"Huh," I wonder to myself, "is a glass of wine an acceptable breakfast?"