Breakfast of Champions

A break from your fast. Your body has just spent 8+ hours without input and needs a jumpstart.  Coffee gets you out of the house, but it doesn't take you through lunch. 

I love breakfast.  With three kids at three different schools, breakfast is just part of the coordination that so easily tips into chaos during the week.  One appears in Spiderman underwear, the oldest has her blanket wrapped around her, and Little Miss Sunshine has her "I'm a Morning Person!" smile on.  I glare and wait for my coffee.  Here we all are, around the table and it really is a miracle.  Once a day for dinner already feels like an accomplishment, but twice!?   A miracle and a joy!

Sometimes breakfast is silent.  My teenager slurps her cereal, steals bacon from her helpless sister, rolls her eyes and reads the cereal box.  Some mornings breakfast is a cacophony:  the Only Son is whining, the Teenager is whining, and Miss Good Morning is singing her own little morning song, oblivious and immune. 

And then my teapot is singing, and then so are we:  "I'm a little teapot, short and stout!"  I cradle my coffee cup while this one gets dressed, help that one with her backpack, hand money over to the teenager (don't ask me why, just do it!)  I sign permission slips and slide scrambled eggs on this one's plate, spread peanut butter on toast while my eyes pass over backwards sixes and sound out the words.

Our breakfasts do not resemble our dinners.  We are wound up and at the starting gate.  We look forward, each to his or her own adventure.  We start our day with this song.

I love breakfast.  Even better?  Breakfast on Sunday.  It's nonchalant, mellow, sleepy.  It happens after two cups of coffee.  It happens after 9:00.  It inevitably happens in pajamas, and sometimes we're outside.  We set the table.  We set out carafes of juice, knives, forks.  We read the paper, chuckle at comics, feed the dog the last bite, languish the morning away to Frank Sinatra, Prairie Home Companion, Hall and Oates. 

We have time for pancakes.  French toast.  If I've been a Smart Mom (not always...!)  I've made strata and do nothing but slide it in and out of the oven.  Or bread pudding.  Coffee cake.  These are mimosa days. 

Sometimes Miss Sunshine is up at 6.  How did this Night Owl end up with this Abomination in my house?  But she's smiling and singing and caressing my drooly cheek, and  so we are up.  This bright-eyed girl sifts flour, whisks eggs, measures and spills, giggling quietly.  No cynical teenagers up at six!  No whiny little brother!  We are conspiring girlies, whispering as we break eggs and create the beginning of Something Good.