Every once in awhile, I get an idea in my head that weekday breakfasts shouldn't be toast or oatmeal, that something more elaborate would be better to send the kids off with. (The 50's housewife tucked way back in my head claps her hands with delight.)
I inexplicably forget that I am a woman on a schedule and fuss around the kitchen, leading to happy children (and husband) but usually leaving me flying around, trying to get myself ready.
This morning, I got out of bed a few minutes early and convinced myself I had loads of time, so I started making pancakes. And I was doing well, too – multi-tasking, flipping things at the stove, brushing R’s hair, doing a Mommy-veto of the four cars Cass wanted to stuff into his pockets and take to school, even managing a conversation with Bear about the dishwasher and parts needed. I was doing swell, until R stood up in her chair and then fell off with a thud and a wail.
I had her up on my hip and was doing the comforter rock-sway that all parents are familiar with, when R spotted the batter bowl. Quick as a flash, she had it up in her arms, and just as quick, I had it away from her – it was fast approaching crunch time, and the last thing I needed was to have to clean the floor before I left.
She looked pensive for a moment, then brightened when she saw my earrings. “Mama pitty!” she chirped, patting me and grinning.
And it wasn’t until we were almost through breakfast that we realized she’d left a generous schmear of pancake mix on my hair.
And it was time to leave.
Tossing the baby at Bear (who caught her easily – he’s getting good at this juggling thing) I pounded upstairs to wash my hair and rub at my head frantically with a towel. There was no time to use the hair dryer, so we drove to town with the heater cranked and my window down.
(And it’s September – the mornings are chill.)
I’m going to strangle that housewife with her own apron.
And I may never pick up the baby again. Well, not without checking her hands.