Sunday, February 24, 2013

Scene From An American Sunday Morning

". . . Gooooood morning."  =)

I blearily open one eye to find that there is jawa standing a foot away from my side of the bed and addressing me politely. 


I didn't think their species was generally that concerned with courtesy.

I blink.  Rub my eyes.  Streeeeetch.  Take note of the Spiderman pajamas and beseeching eyes.

It is, of course, young Padawan.  In the blur of dreams of sleep still clinging to me, I had momentarily forgotten that he was here this weekend.  I glance back at him, where he is staring at me expectantly.  (Much like the cat does when he's hungry, and only slightly less meow-y.)

"Good morning buddy."

I glance at the clock and, once the notification that it is not quite 7 a.m. reaches my brain, my body shuts down and I burrow deep into the covers once again.  I can practically HEAR Padawan's frustration.

". . .Why don't you go turn on cartoons in the living room, REALLY quiet, and I'll be in there in a minute?"

Panic.  He is obviously about to panic.  "But what about my choccy milk??!?!"

(We have REALLY got to teach this kid to use a spoon.  Mental note to give a chocolate milk tutorial.  TODAY.)

I try to sound pacifying as I say, "I'll be in there in just a FEW minutes. . ."


And Michael wakes up from the other side of the bed, emerging from the covers like a great whale emerging from the sea, just long enough to solve my little early-rising jawa problem.


Sadness.  Piercing and deep.  (From my side of the bed, but not from me.)

And so he goes back upstairs.  And proceeds to do it in his special Padawan way that of course insures that he has just awoken the baby.

So good morning, indeed.

But I'm awake at this point anyway, so no big deal.

Feed the cats, rescue the baby from his crib, administer good morning-juice and chocolate milk, and I find myself standing in front of the pantry with Padawan, parading the handful of ready-made breakfast delicacies that we have on-hand and trying to locate something he finds appetizing.

"Okay.  Would you rather have a waffle, some cereal, or a pop-tart?"

"Uuuuummmm. . . two-tart!"

(He knows how to pronounce 'pop-tart.'  He has known how to pronounce it for several years now.  And yet he still calls them 'two-tarts'.  I am forced to conclude that this is either a matter of personal preference, or that he believes that his father and I are intentionally mispronouncing the word and then maliciously feeding him misinformation.  Misinformation!  It's what's for breakfast!)

And so I take out a pop-tart, cut it into pieces (like he likes it), and take it to him in the den so that he can eat it while he watches cartoons.  (Because I'm awesome like that.  And because the floors need to be swept anyway.)

Two minutes elapse.

*In his BEST whiny 6 year old voice*  "Daaaaaaniiiiii!  My two-tart's all hard and stiff!"

(His tone indicates that this is a predicament only slightly better than finding oneself knee deep in quicksand.  PIRANHA-infested quicksand.  . . .I don't know if the piranha's could survive all the sand, but if they COULD. . . wow.  SUPER undesirable situation.)

"They're 'stiff'?"

"They're stiff!  . . .probably because you put 'em back in the box without wrapping 'em up."

(He has heard Michael get on to me for this.  When the baby eats one pop-tart, I will often ---fine.  ALWAYS. ---- put the leftover tart back in the box, housed only in its sleeve.  It is NOT the big deal that Michael makes it out to be (is not even a 'real' offense, and I refuse to recognise it as one), because the baby always eats the remaining tart before it has time to get stale.  In a sidenote, the tart that I provided to Pad on THIS morning was one that Michael had GONE BEHIND ME AND PLACED IN A ZIPLOC BAGGIE.  (With no small amount of grumbling, I might add.)  Can I overstate how extremely irritating it is to have one's nefarious deeds undone at EVERY TURN by a conscientious husband with a ziploc baggie???  I really don't think I can.)

And so I explained to Pad the little story about the baggie.

He was unconvinced.  The tart remained 'stiff.'

Completely inedible.

And so we returned to the pantry.

"Okay.  So you would you rather have a waffle, or cereal?  We have flakes and honey nut cheerios."

He did NOT look enticed.

What he LOOKED like was that I had just told him he was going to have to go to school year-round.

Twenty-four hours a day, with no recess, where all the lunchroom serves are three day-old, incredibly stiff tarts.  BLUEBERRY.

"So what's it gonna be?"

"I want french toast."

"That wasn't an option."

"What's an option?"

"It means a choice.  But it doesn't matter, because french toast isn't on the table."

(Turns around and looks at the kitchen table.)

And I'm just staring at him like, I love you very much, I love you very much.  I'm sure I was an idiot, too, when I was six, but sometimes you do things and all I can think is:  Jeebus.

"OH!!!  Breakfast bars!!  We have breakfast bars!!  I forgot about those!  Do you want a breakfast bar?"

"What kind are they?"






And so I get him a breakfast bar, and one for the baby as well, because I know he'll want one as soon as Pad has one, and I feel QUITE relieved to have solved this morning's breakfast dilemma.  (I also feel that I will probably have to cut Michael for introducing the child to french toast.  I mean, I don't mind cooking.  I'm not great at it, but I don't MIND.  UNLESS it is first thing in the morning.  THEN.  I MIND.  Well. . . even then, it's not really so much that 'I mind', as it is that 'I'm not doing it.'  So yes, Michael.  You are going to be cut.  So maybe you should be looking out for that.  Or locating the neosporin.  However you choose to deal with it.  Entirely your call.  I believe in options.  I'm very open-minded like that.)

Anyway, I am happy.  The kids are in the den, the cartoons are blaring, Michael is still resting comfortably, and we have put this whole nasty breakfast issue behind us.


I make my coffee.


I check my interwebz.

La-da-da-DI-da. . .

I pick up a few toys and start to put them away. . .

JUST in time to see Pad's rear end disappear around the top of the stairs.


Look at the coffee table.

Yep.  There's the breakfast bar.

"Hey Pad?"


"Whatcha doin?"  =)

"I'm going upstairs to play."

"Did the breakfast bar not taste right?"

"No.  It was fine."

(Stupid.  Sometimes he is just unbelievably stupid.)

"Come back down here, please."

"I'll be down in a little while, I'm gonna play a game."

Soooooo. . .

This is the point where my hair turns into snakes.  THIS is the point where I tell him that there are kids STARVING in this world that would be HAPPY for his breakfast bar, or his STALE FREAKING TWO-TART!!!!  THIS is where I tell him that there will BE NO SNACKS today, there will BE NO rummaging in the fridge, and if he utters ONE WORD about being hungry, I am going to send him to the Himalayas to become a sherpa.  (Where they are NOT renowned for the freshness of their two-tarts.)

And it is at this point that I realize that it is not even 9 a.m. yet on a Sunday, and I have already come dangerously close to stomping a child.  Stomping a two-tart in his ass.

(Sidenote:  This should probably become a phrase.  Stomping a two-tart in his ass.)

And why the hell is Michael not up yet?  HOW is Michael not up yet? 

And yes, I guess I really AM a mom now.  (Even if I refuse to make french toast.  I said I was a mom, not a PERFECT mom.)

And also, yes.  I suppose it really IS too early for wine.

And so I take a deep breath.

I sip my coffee.

In my head, I repeat the phrase "I am just the universe, experiencing itself.  I am just the universe, experiencing itself."

And I wonder, vaguely, what kind of sicko sadistic universe gets its jollies from giving itself a tension headache.

Your typical Sunday morning, I guess.

Aaaaaand. . . scene.

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