Weekends are for waffles. I can’t be sure when it started, but at some point, it did. Every weekend, Tim makes us breakfast. Then along came a baby and our breakfast for two became a breakfast for three. A real family breakfast. I still can’t believe it sometimes.
Now, Tim has a tiny helper. They make breakfast together, while I lounge in bed for just a little longer. But before you grow too envious, know that those boys are loud in the kitchen. LOUD, you guys. Bowls clanking, eggs breaking, and a whole lot of UH OHs. But it’s still the best and I hope it’s something Dashiell remembers doing with his dad. The thing that’s more fun to do with daddy than mommy because daddy lets him add entire handfuls of chocolate chips to the batter.
So this simple ritual of ours, has a history that’s being built week by week. With the occasional substitution, of course. Like when I end up in the emergency room waiting for surgery and the doctor tells me there is to be no carrying of the baby for 2-3 weeks. Or pools for 3-4. Which I laughed about and then cried. Because…you know. And then I needed something familiar once we were home. So those boys, that I love more than anything in the world, made me waffles. I wore Dashie when we ate, because I needed to be close to him after being away and the sling kept him high and off of my incisions. It worked out quite nicely. We spent the rest of morning on the floor, playing peek a boo, of course.
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