Overheard this week at breakfast:
Me: Bennett, what do you want to eat?
B: The top half of a poppy seed bagel.
When I accidentally toast and present to him the bottom half, I hear this:
B: I asked for the top half. The top half has all the poppy seeds. The bottom half . . . well it might as well be a plain bagel. I just can’t eat this.
Days later, I ask the same question.
B: I don’t know. What do we have?
Me: I have a couple of croissants in the freezer. You can defrost one. (This already makes me feel rather fancy and well-equipped.)
B: Nah, I think I’ll have a pain au chocolat instead.
What I feel like saying: Oh really, you little bugger? You want a pain au chocolat? Well, let me dig a few Euros out of my pocket and you can wander over to the boulangerie and get some.
What I really say: You know, I think I’m off breakfast duty. You’re on your own from here.
Fiona is standing in her chair waving a soggy, naked piece of toast. She’s licked off all the Nutella and is asking for more, as well as the knife to lick. Efram has managed to pour and eat a bowl of cereal, albeit with his fingers, and Francie doesn’t eat much breakfast because she’s incapable of doing two things at the same time: waking up and eating fall into that category. At the same time, Sidney jettisons her sippy cup of milk and starts beating her fists on her high chair. She chants, “Smoothie! Smoothie!” Really? You’re 17 months old and you want a smoothie?
Where was I when breakfast became such a production? I think I want to go back to the days of porridge, or starve. Instead, I’m taking exotic beverage requests (no berries, only mango) and scrounging for French pastries. I’m really looking forward to this week, when thanks to daylight savings I have to drag these kids out of bed and feed them as they moan and wail. M is out of town, so I’ll be flying solo… the only waitress on duty, so to speak.
Oh, I’ll be making breakfast smoothies this week. But mine will be spiked.