This morning’s breakfast tantrum brought to you in part by: Bread.

My kids are responsible for making their own breakfasts (gasp) and getting themselves showered, groomed and ready for school.

Today, I heard the bag of bread rustling on the counter and then I was angrily told, “Mom, there’s no bread.”

I looked over at the bag that once appeared a tailored tube with several slices of bread lined up in perfect order, sealed like a sausage, to see a bread bag balloon with an air pocket about 1 foot around waiting for me to stab it with a pin and have the bread piñata now under pressure, explode all over my counter.

Before I could tell her there was lots of bread, she disappeared down to the basement.

I heard two freezer doors slam and a child storm up the stairs (someone is often chasing my kids when they return from the basement) to declare, “Mom, we don’t have any bread.”

Two things, 1) We have lots of bread both on the kitchen counter wobbling around like an inflatable dinghy and 2) We have more bread in both downstairs freezers but if my kids go searching for an item and it doesn’t leap into their arms as they open the freezer door then we are “out of it.”

I showed my sweet, delightful daughter that we did in fact have bread right there on the counter.

She said, “That’s the worst kind of bread. It’s all crust and it’s not good.”

I can’t even call this a first world problem because this is a problem that really only affects 0.00000001% of the population. Bread anxiety is real and likely shouldn’t be made fun of.

She leafed through the remaining six slices of bread like they were the disappointing pages of a book she was forced to read and explained that those pieces were not edible.

“Has the bread gone moldy?”

No.

What we determined is my daughter, of royal descent, will only eat the centre 2 or 3 slices in the loaf and the rest isn’t fit for turtle food.

“I just read the book ‘Room’ and Jack and Ma survived for seven years in a shed without any fresh baking!”

Child staring blankly at me.

Note to self: Don’t bring fictional characters into your breakfast parenting.

I would be willing, maybe, to let this go if the bread remaining in the bag was that ONE last piece that is all crust, half the size of the others, beginning to take on a whitish/bluish hue warning of future mold, burns instantly when you try to toast it and then you have to take the appliance outside and shake it upside down to retrieve the burnt crumbs. But there were six, fresh slices of bread along with two nubs.

“This is the worst day of my life.”

The worst day of your life? Jack and Ma trying to dig a hole through the floor in a hidden shed where they were imprisoned for almost SEVEN years is….

Never mind.

Eat your cereal.