I’m still sick, but reverted back to my pre illness state of coherence, so I vaguely make sense in brief conversations, but I can’t actually remember the conversation once I’ve journeyed ten minutes from it. It is a pretty wicked cold that passed to my husband…because of the, “what’s mine is yours,” jazz. So, as the less sick spouse, I took the kids out early this morning for breakfast before a visit with my parents.
My cold is well into its second week, but I can’t remember exactly how long I’ve had it. Existing in the throws of early infant days hits my memory profoundly, leaving me to feel as though I’ve always been sick. Taking my children to breakfast this morning reminded me of my real life, not this current experience of me periodically in tears from exhaustion and frustrated with my poor husband who certainly didn’t ask to share my earlier misery.
While the first reasonable night’s sleep in almost a week greatly improved my homicidal perseverations toward humanity…and the idiots sharing my road; preparing breakfast wasn’t something worth tackling. We ate at a local diner with questionable interior design, but the best vegetable omelets I’ve ever eaten; even the mushrooms are fresh among the impressively plentiful variety of roughage.
Our trio entered the virtually empty space and chose a seat. My son in a high chair looking at the traffic along the rotary outside, pointing and unintelligibly discussing the various trucks passing. But, I hung on every word. My daughter sleeping in her bucket. I ordered my meal and my son’s blueberry pancakes (The blueberries are fresh and the amount almost ruin the integrity of the cake!). The service is usually slow at this establishment, but I soaked every piece of this morning. I basked in one of the wait staff commenting I had beautiful baby boy, even though I changed her out of her brother’s pajamas…because Warrior Queen is an infant and resembles this:
(Pat has a better hairline, but this is the identical facial expression just before spit-up seeps from her mouth or she is about to take a dump.)
I reveled in my son’s excitement of having a return to a typical peaceful and low key outing. I felt exuberance anticipating my omelet…my son was equally invested in the arrival of his food. The meal arrived. My son expressing his excitement with his mouth agape in an “O” that wraps around and hugs his teeth. Eyes wide, he waited patiently as I cut his stack of pancakes, but really he was transfixed by the bacon. I completely understand his reaction. Bacon is fabulous, and I would sign any petition enacting it as a superfood. Yeah, I get that it has fat and yadda, yadda, yadda, but who isn’t so happy they almost wet themselves while eating it? But, maybe it’s me. I have twelve more baby pounds to lose, so my order arrived with the Canadian counterpart cooked well. It’s a deficient alternative, but kept me from snatching my son’s pieces out of his hands and mouth. We all have our strategies.
My daughter woke, so my attention vacillated love between my blissfully eating son and my daughter who also seems to relish our typical togetherness atmosphere. My meal was rewarded with smiles, and I barely missed my breakfast lacking the salty magnificence of regular bacon. My fierce girl is almost laughing, some of her smiles so large gasps sporadically escaped her mouth. My son occasionally looked down and pointed. Maybe he would smile or comment on his sister’s excitement. He looked back at me after each gesture with his fist of bacon or fork of pancake, before cramming the selected food in his grinning mouth. He looked at me with all the love I’m tickled he still has, seemingly every tooth on display in between mouthfuls.
It was such a simple morning, and some day these simple moments might be more difficult to come by. Even though my children won’t remember, I hope I can always replay every expression of theirs in my mind, cementing anything from having the chance to wipe my mind’s eye clean.