I am awoken by a small chin digging into my face and petite head of hair draped across my eyes, the owner of which is screaming "apple juice" into my sleeping ears at the top of his lungs. Saturdays at our house are worse than any other day of the week; our weekly "pancake day", it is a veritable display of screaming, cranky, and naked children with the occasional tear, a fistfight over who gets the "pink" plate, and one or more pencil wounds.
So far, having only been awake for thirty seconds, I have been knighted; turned into a frog; named queen of the castle; kissed mommy to see if she will wake up like Sleeping Beauty, (to our daughters' disappointment she did not); exterminated three spiders and one unwilling cockroach; played fire breathing dragons with Charlie as we chased the girls out of their room; and been told that I should wear the pink bow instead of the purple one, "because the purple one is for girls, and the pink one is for boys."
With Charlie in one ear and Scarlett and Ava (alternately) in the other, it becomes increasingly difficult to make decisions and apply deductive reasoning. Ava is telling Scarlett to pay attention to her while Scarlett is yelling at Charlie to look at her picture and Charlie is yelling at me to find him more wet wipes, his new favorite keepsake.
With mommy in bed and no backup in the foreseeable future, I withdraw myself to the kitchen, where it becomes apparent that none of them will agree on breakfast, either. I make the requested pancakes, eggs, and pop tart, brandishing my spatula like a shield against the onslaught of little fists and tired voices tugging at my shirt tails all vying for my undivided attention.
It becomes a battle between man, pan, and child: trying to avoid flipping hot flapjacks onto my daughters or hitting my son in the face while his tantrum at my feet sets me off balance and I stutter step over their squirming bodies as they lay waste to yet another unproductive morning.
While pancakes seem to quell their immediate desires, bacon becomes an instrument of disappointment altogether. With Charlie clinging to my leg like a koala bear, they fight over which plate should be given to whom, agreeing that everyone has had the same plate "forever", even though these particular plates have never been used. When I venture to cook bacon, usually only after mommy joins us for our morning Olympics I select only enough for the two of us to enjoy. Ava will pitch a pout fest until she is granted a slice of the heavenly smoked meat, while Scarlett and Charlie will fight over it, only to leave it abandoned, recklessly cast aside as they scamper off to torture each other elsewhere.
Therefore, I try to resist making bacon with the kids in the house, because I can't bring myself to watch it being disgraced this way. They nibble at their plates, picking at their breakfasts like chickens pecking at corn, savoring the syrup doused fluffy pancakes as if this was their last meal and they will never see pancakes again in their lives; relishing the moment and plotting their escape, staring forlornly at the living room, desperate to break the bonds of kitchen torment and tackle each other on the field of battle in front of the TV.
It is the same every Saturday. We wake up far too early, excited to play dress up and fight imaginary beasts, ready to take on the day and jump at each other determining whether breakfast will be eaten or beaten into one another with fists full of syrup and greasy fingers of meat murder while Scarlett tugs at me telling me that Charlie "stinks" again...just another beautiful Saturday morning.
