My husband let me sleep late this morning, which was great since I was up at 2 a.m. wrestling with the ghost of the Papa Johns pizza I ate last night.
That damn garlic sauce will get you every time.
When I dragged my corpse downstairs a little after nine, I found that he’d already fed the toddler and provided him with entertainment. I was feeling pretty grateful, so I decided to make him pancakes.
My friend Denae brags about making perfect pancakes all the time, but I am one of those people who always, always ruins the first one. The dog is appreciative but it never ceases to annoy me that I can’t hit one out of the park on the first try.
So I’m halfway through the bucket of batter I’ve prepared, a stack of hotcakes steaming on a plate and a tray of bacon in the oven. I have the usual conversation about the appropriate “doneness” of bacon – CHEWY! NO! CRUNCHY! CHEWY DAMMIT! – before I declare it done and turn off the oven.
I’m preparing my husband’s plate and I hear him reading to our son in the living room.
“Baa baa black sheep…” he begins.
I hum along in my head. This was one of my favorite nursery rhymes when I was little, who knows why.
He finishes, “One for the master, one for the dame and one for the little boy who lives down the lane.”
I throw down my spatula and yell, “AND NONE FOR GRETCHEN WEINERS!”
My sense of humor is clearly not adequately appreciated around here.
This is why we need a daughter. A daughter who will watch Mean Girls 3,752 times with her mother and get all my Glen Coco jokes and maybe not burn the first pancakes on a lazy Friday morning.