“Mom, where are the eggs?” This comes from the same boy who at three asked me where I keep the gasoline.
“Why?” I ask with more than a little trepidation.
It seems his intentions are pure. F. wants to surprise my husband with breakfast in bed.
Whenever we can, we let Chaz sleep in. He works long hours during the week, volunteers his evenings to the Cub Scouts and does the lion’s share of the cooking on the weekends. Yes, if you’re wondering, I did marry Superman.
This shocks all who knew my husband all those years ago.
He was the one who was never getting married. Kids? Forget about it.
Then I became his roommate in a rundown Capital Hill row house. Six months later he proposed. The rest as they say is history. Sometimes you don’t know what you want until it moves into your apartment.
I steer F. away from eggs and encourage him to make a breakfast that doesn’t include using fire. He builds a plate of cereal, fruit, yogurt and toast. I think it’s a nice touch that he trims off the crusts.