I'm not a morning person. In fact, I've never been a morning person. I used to drive my mother insane each and every morning when I was a kid. My mom was and still is a morning person. You know the type - they jump out of bed happily humming along with the birds, they make their bed, shower, dress, cook breakfast, read the paper, discover life on another planet, and invent a car that runs on mud all before 5:00am. This is my mom. I, on the other hand, am the kind of person that hits the snooze button on the alarm clock fifty-three times before throwing the clock against the wall, pulling the covers up around my head, and falling back asleep.
I can stay up until 3:00 in the morning without blinking an eye, but when 7:00 am rolls around, I still play the snooze alarm game on a daily basis. My children, however, are small versions of my mother who delight in waking me up by running through the house, shrieking the blood curdling screams of a bad actor in a horror movie about to be slashed by an ax wielding madman. It's a great way to start the day with an ulcer.
After a particularly bad week of the kids waking up super early and being super crazy in the morning, they surprised me. On Saturday morning, I slept until 9:00! That's unheard of in my house. NINE O'CLOCK! Know how I awoke this particular Saturday morning at 9:00? I awoke to my two oldest children bringing me breakfast in bed. I was certain that either
A. I was in the Twilight Zone and those were not my children, but cyborgs programmed to cook or
B. I was on Candid Camera
They came in my room carrying a cookie sheet which they used as a tray. On the cookie sheet, was a stack of pancakes with syrup, a plate of toast with jelly, and a glass of orange juice. Wow! After being reassured that the two kids bringing me my breakfast were indeed my children and not aliens who'd taken over their bodies, I took a bite of the pancakes only to discover that they weren't actually pancakes. I'm not certain what they were, but they were definitely not pancakes. First, they were black, and I'm pretty sure I've never seen pancakes quite this shade of black at IHOP. Secondly, I remembered that we were out of eggs. How did they make pancakes without eggs? Lastly, what were they doing using the stove? I mentally thank God that they didn't hurt themselves or burn down the house while flipping flapjacks, then I choked down every last bite of that breakfast because that's what moms do. We appreciate all the little things our kids do for us from the burnt, chewy pancake breakfasts to the homemade Mother's Day cards, to the mud pies and dandelion bouquets. I know that all too soon, these days will be gone.
Oh yeah - where were the other four children while my oldest two were playing Emeril in the kitchen? Well, three of them were watching a movie. And the baby was sitting in her high chair eating the breakfast that my two oldest prepared for her. It was a breakfast of pineapple. Yep, that's it. Just pineapple. A whole big can of pineapple. It was so thoughtful of my oldest kids to try and help out and give the baby breakfast like that, that I just didn't have the heart to tell them that they had given the baby enough citric acid to last a year and a half. The baby's poor little butt burst into flames every time she pooped for the next two days. I don't think I've ever used so much diaper cream in my life. Still, it was a wonderful gesture on my kids' part. So wonderful, in fact, that I hardly noticed the pancake batter splattered all over the stove and the orange juice spilled on the floor and the jelly on the counter tops and the bread sitting on the counter drying out in the open bag. Hardly.