This morning S rocked into our room bright-eyed, fluffy-tailed and tried to get into bed for a cuddle. This made a total of 4 people in a standard UK sized double-bed. E was once again in our bed and once he sensed her presence in the room he decided that he was going to, quite literally, kick off. The serenity of a Sunday morning had been shattered by the foot of a 2/3year old being planted in my eye socket and S complaining that she was cold. Husband barely moved. I’m going to buy a defibrillator and hide it under the bed. ‘I’ll take them downstairs, shall I?’. I accepted husband’s silence as a ‘yes’. Weekends are, on the whole, much more laid back affairs. There isn’t the panic of ironing a school top, trying to get the kids to eat at the kitchen table, checking emails all before 8am. It’s a different vibe. I like it.
That said, the mornings usually do follow a format – E will want milk, S will want Netflix, E will want a biscuit, S will want pancakes etc. It’s a case of low level one-upmanship. As a treat this morning I thought I’d whip out a new option from my culinary breakfast arsenal-french toast. Knowing that E would turn his nose up to this I asked him if he’d like scrambled eggs – that got a big fat yes. Then husband came downstairs (finally) and asked if there was any chance of cheese on toast? Channeling my inner Nigella and trying to ‘pay it forward’ I graciously obliged.
Before you can say ‘what were you thinking?’ I’d made the french toast for S, insisting that he had some banana with it (which she turned her nose up at), once E saw S french toast he flatly refused to eat his scrambled egg and wanted the same. I then made his but used Christmas cutters so that he didn’t need to eat the crusts and it would be more ‘fun’. On presenting him with his new breakfast he prodded it, poked it, tasted it and spat it out. Now on breakfast option #3 I yielded and offered Coco Pops. They’re currently going soggy, halfway between the bowl and the table. Like a trail of flattened ants. Husband’s cheese on toast was a triumph but by this time I, and the kitchen looked like a contestant on an early round of Masterchef just without any sexual harassment from Gregggggg Wallace.
I’m pleased that my husband is the chef in the house. I specialise in brown/being food and on the whole, it’s usually inedible. This is why he get’s more of a lie-in than I do. Later on he’ll be cooking a roast and it will be delicious. For now I’ll just pick up the scrambled egg which has been trodden into the carpet and go back to my barely-warm- enough-to-drink-cup-of-tea. Sunday’s are not what they used to be.