Yesterday we had one of those rushed mornings.
The kind where one kid is up at 6am but hasn’t accomplished any of the basic tasks required to land her on the school bus at 8am until someone else emerges with morning hair from that dream world down the hall over an hour later.
Ellie shouts one of two things the second you gently nudge her awake. 1) “Could you hear my dream?” (No) or 2) “Can I have Goldfish crackers in my lunch?” (Also, no)
It was a morning when the kids knew they had me against the ropes. Greg had left for an early meeting, I had two lunches to make, diapers to change, Goldfish to hide and muted/soundless dreams to interpret all before 8am.
Ellie sensed an opportunity to ask for waffles for breakfast. Waffles are typically reserved for birthdays or Sundays or some special occasion because (sorry Waffle makers) they don’t offer that healthy start to the day my six year old Goldfish-digger requires for her Lego building juices to start flowing.
Yesterday however, I would have said yes if she had asked for Goldfish dipped in duck fat smothered in maraschino cherry juice. I was rushed and I knew eating something was better than eating nothing.
Ellie, “Mommy, can I have syrup?”
“You want syrup?” (Glances at the 7:42am pulsating on the microwave—YOU CAN’T HANDLE SYRUP!) “You got it kiddo!”
I quickly squirted a smear on the waffle and played interference with her fork shoving a piece of nectarine into her mouth before she could get any waffle in.
She stared at her plate and said, “Mommy, look! You made an “S” with the syrup! I think you found your one special thing!”
There it was. It has taken almost thirty-seven years and I finally found my one special thing.
Note the time—7:59am, March 1st, 2012
Waffle Artist
