The Breakfast

Today is Mother's Day. It is 9:15 am.

A while ago, my husband woke me up and asked if I could stay in bed for 45 minutes.

Easily.

Some time later there was a soft knock on my bedroom door. I ignored it, hoping whoever it was would go away and I could drift back to dreamland. (I was up until midnight making sure all my boys would have clean pants to wear to church today.)

The door opened. Someone softly crept up to the bedside. I opened my eyes, and there stood child #4, holding a plate of toast.

He had been telling me for several days that he wanted to make me toast for Mother's Day. He had felt a little anxious because he didn't think he could butter it. I had assured him that I could butter it if he brought me a knife and some butter.

I looked at the toast. It was buttered.

“Did you butter this all by yourself?” I asked.

He beamed, and replied affirmatively.

I took the plate, and he left the room.

I lay back down and closed my eyes. I easily could have gone right back to sleep.  My stomach was not quite up to eating yet. But, the proud look on that little face...

I opened my eyes, stuffed the toast in my mouth, placed the plate on the floor, and chewed away as I settled back down.

Another knock pulled me out of dreamland.

“Come in,” I muttered without opening my eyes.

“Happy Mother's Day!” came the energetic exclamation. I recognized child #3's happy voice.

I opened my eyes and sat up.

Even without my glasses, I could see he was bringing me another breakfast; a piece of bread with a yellow blob in the middle (it turned out to be an egg), and a kiwi cut in half, arranged above the bread to form a funny face.

I laughed.

So did he.

I thanked him, he handed me the plate and left.

I placed the plate down on the bed, lay down, and closed my eyes.

The funny face called to me. I was already full of toast, but really, could I eat one child's gift and not the other's?

I sat up, scooped the kiwifruit out of it's skin and popped it into my mouth, dripping juice on my shirt and pillow.

I left the bread/egg combo on the plate and lay back down.

From the kitchen came the sounds of clinking utensils and sizzling meat,and I guessed that I had one more breakfast coming.

“Momma!”

Child #5 was up.

“Momma!”

She still hadn't figured out how to climb out of her crib. I'm pretty lucky.

“Momma!”

Apparently no one else had heard her. Besides, she was calling MY name.

I rolled out of bed, crossed the hall and opened the door.

“Good morning, darlin'!”

I lifted her out of the crib and invited her to come to bed with me. She accepted.

Upon seeing the plates in my room, she asked questions. I told her about my multiple breakfasts-in-bed.

“I didn't bring you breakfast in bed!” she exclaimed, distraught.

“Dad is still in the kitchen,” I said. “Why don't you go talk to him?”

I was hoping she would be satisfied to help with whatever he was cooking up.

A few minutes later, child #5 returned, carrying a potted, pink, flowering plant. 

Daddy followed with a plate of eggs Benedict and fancy sliced pineapple.

Children #s 2,3 and 4 popped in also, bearing gifts: versions of home-made and school-made flowers.

Proper exclamations of surprise and elation commenced, and everyone smiled.

Before long I was left alone with the eggs Benedict. My tummy protested slightly, but my taste-buds won out: I ate the whole thing.

Part way through this third breakfast, child #5 came running in, crying. “There's no more bread!”

She had wanted to make toast for me, as well. I said a silent prayer of thanks that the bread was all gone, and Daddy came in to fetch the little darling, offering to help her find something to make for me.

It turned out to be a hot dog bun. In a cereal bowl. She proudly presented her offering, and I accepted.

A few minutes later another hot dog bun appeared. “For Lunch,” she explained.

Of course. Lunch. About the time child #1 would roll out of bed.

I am one lucky woman. A lucky wife, a lucky mother, a lucky lady. I am so grateful God gave me this crazy adventure called Motherhood.