08222017Headline:

A Special Breakfast

"Hello, room service? Yes, we'll need two bowls of cereal. Oh, and bring a bottle of Scotch for our mother."

“Hello, room service? Yes, we’ll need two bowls of cereal. Oh, and bring a bottle of Scotch for our mother.”

Plans to deal with the Split level are up and running, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t lost massive amounts of sleep, staring at the back of my eyelids and wondering whether we really should pack everyone up and join the next passing circus.

The only problem I have with this is that the baby just learned how to walk and wouldn’t have a talent to contribute, besides letting us shoot him out of a cannon and running to catch him before he landed in someone’s lap and slapped them in the face.

You see my dilemma.

What?

No, I’m not worried about the rest of the family. We look fabulous in sequins.

So, I blame the astronomical sleepiness which contributed to my huge lack in judgement, when I fed Sundance breakfast this morning, and decided to shut my eyes for the few minutes before the boys woke up.

*Idiot alarms of the world go off in unison*

I suppose it was the first sloshing sound, or perhaps Sundance yelling, “Get the towel,” but, either or, I knew I didn’t want to open my eyes.

So I lay there and listened to my fate:

“She’s gonna love it.”

“Just pour a little more.”

“Makin’ the breakfast.”

There are times in this parenting gig when you know you were irresponsible and the mess awaiting you is totally your fault. So you accept it. But there are other times when the scale of what awaits you is so huge, you’re not sure who let you have children in the first place.

As the baby and I walked down stairs (me in a shirt and no pants, and him in pants and no shirt), the twins presented their work with such a flourish, I had no words.

Mostly because I’d stepped in chocolate milk and was completely disoriented.

And then I found my words, and they were something along the lines of, “What the hell?”

Sundance smiled from behind the coffee table. “We made you breakfast.”

I surveyed the middle of the living room. “Ahh, yes. We’re not close enough to Christmas, so I was wondering why all the condements are open and put into groups.”

In the center of the spread, stood what I surmised to be the main course. I’ve broken it down into a quick recipe here so you can make it for your family, if Fear Factor announces they’re coming to dinner at the last moment. Or, if you make meth and can’t remember how to cook:

Don’t heat the oven.

1. Spread a base of expensive cookies from the bakery on a flimsy plastic tray.

2. Sprinkle cookies with a generous helping of chocolate-covered raisens you were going to eat while writing later that evening.

3. Season with half a bag of Skittles.

4. Evenly spread a layer of off brand Lucky Charms over a solid, not-safe-for-diabetics base.

5. Carefully, pour chocolate milk over the entire tray. Put any extra chocolate milk in a a pretty white bowl next to the main course. I don’t totally understand toddler culture, but I think this may have been for dipping.

6. Prepare the yogurt glaze. The baby was supposed to eat the yogurt, but, seeing as the children don’t particularly care what he thinks right now, he can eat bread crusts.

7. Gingerly drop dollops of yogurt over the now heaping and highly unstable masterpiece.

8. Lay out all empty containers. This not only creates ambiance, but also informs the resident adult that a large part of the grocery shopping the day before was a huge waste of time.

“We just wanted to make something for you.”

They were the words which stopped my head from spinning all the way around. There’s nothing I find more annoying than things that are my fault, dished up with a large helping of good will and smiles from children who think underwear on their head is the height of fashion.

And now, I must leave you all and continue the house hunt. I also have to work on finding some pants.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.


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