This morning we woke up to the words which completely signal the fact that THE WINTER MONTHS! THEY ARE UPON US!
Hubs crawled out of bed and announced, “I’m congested. Which bottle of pills in the bathroom will help me with that? Do I take this Mucinex? Or the Zantac?”
I’m pretty sure that he meant to say Zyrtec, but who was I to interfere with high-quality, early-morning entertainment?
Take the Zantac, Dear, and eat an extra breakfast burrito from McDonald’s, because I totally know you’re going to sneak down there and get one, and I know you’re going to add a large Coke to your order, too.
Mothers know things. I never knew exactly HOW my own mother knew things when I was younger, but knew them she did. And really? I seem to have the power now, too.
Sister lopped off half of a chocolate cake at L’s birthday dinner on Saturday night, shoved it into a Tupperware tub, and sent it home with the boy. Her parting words were, “Here, Boy; it’s so you can have a little cake after dinner tomorrow night, too.”
If by a little cake she meant a slice that would have made Goliath sit down and say, “Whoa, Nelly! That’s a lot of sugar,” then we totally have that piece at our house.
This morning, after the boy had piled himself and his backpack into Hubs’ truck and headed off to school, I noticed that the tub of cake, which has been sitting on our counter since Saturday night, was a bit crooked.
Yes, blame it on the OCD. I like things straight and in line. I like all the ducks to be in order, and when the Tupperware tub full of cake is cockeyed on the counter, I suspect foul play.
I couldn’t prove anything, though, as far as foul play went. And then, as I started to load the early morning dishes into the faithful LG dishwasher, I realized that there wasn’t a single dish that indicated the boy had eaten breakfast. The boy, you see, likes to make his own breakfast. Specifically, he likes to make himself cereal and Pop Tarts. The cereal always goes in a bowl; the Pop Tarts always go on a plate; the Pop Tart wrappers always go on the floor or in his bedroom closet. This morning, there was neither bowl nor plate, so I was hard-pressed to decide what he’d actually eaten. I looked back at the cake tub.
Surely not, I thought. Surely the boy would know, deep in his innermost soul, that only Bill Cosby feeds chocolate cake to his children for breakfast, and that Mama simply does not.
And then, thirty minutes later, as I was slinging the vacuum cleaner across the living room, I found it.
A glob of chocolate frosting, the size of a quarter, on the hardwood floor. Fresh frosting. Unhardened frosting. Frosting which had not been exposed to the elements long enough for it to dry out.
People! My child apparently ate cake for breakfast.
When he came home from school this afternoon, I casually asked, “So, what did you make yourself for breakfast this morning, while I was curling my hair?”
He sighed and said, “Oh, you know. I found some stuff.”
“Some stuff like chocolate cake?”
His guilty expression said it all. “How did you know?” he asked.
I know, because mothers always know. It’s because I’ve finally reached the pinnacle of Mother Maturity, and I have the power to tell things.
The boy had chocolate cake; Hubs had a couple of breakfast burritos. And a Coke. I’m going to hang a shingle out front that says, “Jedi Mama, Private Investigator.”