The boys were sitting at the breakfast table, fairly calm as they ate their pancakes. By the way, just so you know, homemade buttermilk pancakes on a semi-regular basis are defense exhibit # 4 for "why I don’t suck entirely as a mother." Unfortunately, they are also prosecution exhibit # 5 under the category of “can you believe she feeds her children this sort of sugar and simple carbohydrate paste and calls it a MEAL?” I tell you what, though, they are yummy. Where was I?
Ah yes, the gentle scene of homey contentment. The air was scented with toasty pancake goodness. Sunlight streamed through the windows. Three little boys bent over their plates, eating their pancakes with joy – AND YET one bite at a time. As I ladled another round of batter onto the griddle, I heard Tre humming a song. “The Hand Clapping Song,” a piece he’s been struggling with on the piano for a while. As he ate with one hand, the other thumped the notes on the table. Max bobbed his head in rhythm, and Raphael quietly sang the time as he’s heard his brother do, “One, two, one, two, one, two, ONE TWO ONE.”
I leaned against the counter and enjoyed the scene. They looked so CIVILIZED – so calm and normal, as though they were at last inching their way toward being the sort of people who SIT and EAT and HUM and think deep THOUGHTS. I call them gentlemen all the time. I do. As I’m leaving a store or the pool or whatever, I will call out over my shoulder, “Let’s go, gentlemen.” They respond, more or less, and the people within earshot goggle at me. You can practically see the thought bubble above their heads; Did she just call those running, shrieking, climbing hooligans GENTLEMEN? I don’t think that means what she thinks it means.
But I live in hope, you know. And this morning they looked so peaceful and refined, my heart was glad.
“BUUUUUURRRP!” commented Tre.
They all laughed. Max spit pancake across the table.
“NICE ONE!” crowed Raphael.
Ah well. Maybe tomorrow.