The boy was up this morning before any of the local ranchers headed out to drop bales of hay onto the ground for their livestock. He said that he had a hankering for scrambled eggs, and that he wanted to make them himself.
So he got up early to give himself plenty of egg-cooking time.
This is why God gave man the power to invent things. Man invented the granola bar, and blam! He could sleep in longer. There is no reason now to get up early to prepare breakfasts from scratch, unless it’s a Sunday morning and your husband has said, “I would sure love some homemade waffles.” But that was Sunday. Breakfast on Monday mornings at our house consists of me standing in front of the refrigerator, bemoaning the fact that I had chosen to skip a trip to Walmart over the weekend, because WHO HAS THE INNER STRENGTH TO DEAL WITH THAT?! And then I pinch a corner of blue fuzz off of a slice of Wonder Bread, toast it up for the boy, slap on some I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, and breakfast is served.
(Oh, I kid. When the bread gets fuzzy, I have heart palpitations of fear and salmonella and penicillin overdoses, and I just throw it into the garbage and go to Starbucks. It’s a coping mechanism. I never feed blue fuzz to the boy.)
(Not on purpose, anyway.)
When the boy’s eggs were cooked, it was still an UNREASONABLE HOUR of the morning, so Hubs and I were still in bed, wondering if the boy was actually OUR CHILD, since he had gotten up early to cook.
(We’re fairly certain the answer is YES. The boy is the spitting image of my dad, when my dad was a small fry, and he has my toes and Hubs’ blue eyes. There’s no getting out of this one.)
What with the morning still being early and all, the boy made a bottle for Thing 2, and then he announced, “Well. I cooked eggs for MY breakfast, and I made a bottle for my brother’s breakfast, and my parents stayed in bed.”
Hubs and I hung our heads and pretended to feel shame.
And then I looked the boy straight in the eyes and asked, “So? What’s for dinner tonight?”
Sadly, I was only half joking.
You’ll be happy to know that I did eventually get out of bed and shower and smear on some deodorant and mascara. I even used the hot rollers and achieved a bouncy, sassy ponytail that would have put every single teenage girl in 1958 to shame. All I lacked was a poodle skirt and a boyfriend in a black leather jacket.
And then, since the boys were ready for their days SO DADGUM EARLY, I made them sit on the fireplace for pictures.
“Those boys are stinking adorable!”
Yes. Yes, they are. They’re two of my biggest blessings of ever.
After the boy had left for school, I cleaned up the kitchen. Thing 2 decided that HEY! I WILL VOLUNTEER FOR KITCHEN DUTY, MA! And so that’s how he came to help me unload the clean dishes out of the dishwasher and load in the dirties.
And yes. He got himself up there. I can show you photographic proof of how he does it.
And then Thing 2 crawled across our kitchen (because surgery on Friday hasn’t slowed him down AT! ALL!), and he pulled open a drawer for the very first time. His eyes were overwhelmed because LOOK AT ALL THIS TUPPERWARE YOU HAVE BEEN HIDING FROM ME, MA! WHEN DID WE GET ALL OF THESE SUPER COOL CONTAINERS? I LOVE THEM, MA!
And then he glanced up at me and asked, “Did you say UNLOAD the Tupperware drawer? Because that’s what I’ve gone ahead and done for you. I’m trying to be helpful.”
I’m pretty sure that we have officially entered that window of time in which Hubs and I will have to buy OH, I DON’T KNOW! Locks for the garbage cabinet! And locks for the Clorox cabinet! And we’re going to have to move the cat food to the top of the refrigerator!
I’m pretty sure our lives are about to change dramatically.
But at least there are fresh-cooked eggs in the mornings to help us cope.
Y’all have a happy Tuesday.