I open my eyes and squint at the grey light of my dimly lit bedroom. It’s hellishly early (for me), 7:50 am to be precise. My gallant husband, holding a squirmy grinning 15 month old with milk dried all over her face, is standing in the doorway. “I’ve made you breakfast and tea,” he announces and flourishes his arm toward the living room. “Get up!”
I stare at the door in disbelief. He woke me up 10 minutes early. I should be angry. I should scream at him as any self respecting wife would do. But he made me breakfast. There’s nothing I can do. He has won and managed to get me out of bed early. I hoist myself up onto an elbow and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Bleary-eyed I locate my dressing gown, heave it on, and shuffle grumpily to the living room.
A beautiful mug of tea, a bowl of cream of wheat, and plate of scrambled eggs welcome me, artfully displayed on a breakfast tray. “Good morning” they say. “We hope you had a pleasant sleep. Please enjoy our delicious scrumptiousness.”
I take a bite out of the creamy yellow clouds and marvel at how something so simple could taste so good. All of a sudden a pair of big brown eyes appear by my elbow. “Mmmmm???”
“Go away baby.”
Undaunted, little raccoon perches her hands on the edge of the tray and she gazes lovingly at the eggs with a half smile on her face.
“John!!! Has this thing eaten?” I ask, the panic making my voice a combination of terrified and whiny.
“No. She wasn’t hungry.” he says nonchalantly as he clangs around in the kitchen.
“Uh. Okay.” I say, while frowning at the baby who is staring in a trance at my food.
The little imp’s smile widens as she mumbles “mumeee. Muuuummmee. Muuuummmmeeee.” in the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard. It’s her favorite word at the moment. She places a tiny finger on my eggs and grins at me.
“Go awaaaaay baybeeee” I whine pathetically, holding the fork mere inches from my mouth.
“Mummeeeee” she coos and opens her mouth like an expectant baby bird. I give in. “Yummmmmm” she gurgles in happiness. “Maybe she’ll go away now,” I think. No such luck.
“Mmmmm?!!!” she squeaks. It’s her way of asking for something. I’m secretly worried she’ll never speak English, and she’ll just get through life by gesturing and squeaking for what she wants. Five minutes later my eggs are gone. “At least I have my cream of wheat” I grumble at her. She grins as she sticks her finger in the bowl, licks her finger, and hums happily to herself.
She eats half the bowl and wanders off and I’m left with cold cream of wheat. As I miserably finish the remains of my formerly delectable meal John bops in from the kitchen, “so how was it?!! Good?”