Breakfast In Bed

Though a joyful time of year on many levels, the few days preceding Christmas inevitably prove to be harried and exhausting times for many parents.  True to form, I personally spent the three days leading up to Christmas Eve doing last minute shopping until the mall closed at midnight only to return home wired; then baking and wrapping gifts until 2 or 3 in the morning.  Christmas Eve was spent cooking and serving dinner with a mad rush afterward to an annual Holiday party.  Santa made his appearance to the delight of all, and we rolled back down the driveway somewhere in the vicinity of 11 p.m.  With the kids finally asleep and my husband sent off to bed after several attempts to "help" me, I proceeded to "clean" for Santa and take care of last minute preparations until about 2 a.m.

Following a full day of opening presents, assembling toys and cooking, when Christmas night had finally arrived and the children had been put to bed, I was more than ready for some sleep.  Finally, snuggled deliciously in my bed, I shut my eyes only to feel them spring open again at the sound of my daughter's panic stricken voice bellowing from the end of the hallway.  With a mad dash to her room, I arrived just in time to see her toss her cookies.  Clearly, she had not seen the sign I carry inside my head:
She didn't even need to be able to read to get this one.  And so, the evening continued with me cleaning up, settling her little self back down, settling my son back down after he woke to see what all the excitement was about and finally settling myself back down as well.  Not back to my own bed, mind you, but curled up like a pill bug at the bottom of my daughter's twin bed.  It just seemed easier to grab a few winks that way and be handy in case she forgot to remember the sign again.

The next morning, I awoke to the distinctive, nostril piercing smell of burned toast.  And weak coffee.  And something else familiar that I couldn't put my finger on.  I willed my eyes open again as I also identified the distinctive snore of my husband from down the hall.  Husband in bed, mother in bed, food cooking; it all registered.  Breakfast in bed.  I do not like breakfast in bed.

My children have tried to give me breakfast in bed several times before.  In the past, my husband has been able to direct them to simple fare most unlikely to cause any problems such as custard style yogurt, grapes, coffee in a travel mug and juice in a sippy cup.  All are technically fine, but I still passionately dislike the idea of food in my bedroom.  I distain the thought of the kids using appliances, using knives, spilling whatever on the carpet up the stairs and the inevitable item that has rolled off the tray to remain undiscovered for weeks.  I know my misgivings should be overshadowed by the spirit of the gesture, but I really do struggle with the entire idea.  

When I asked others about their feelings on the subject, I had mixed results.  I sifted guiltily through many e-mails from disgruntled mommies who felt slighted because their kids had never made them breakfast in bed.  Those lucky mommies don't know how good they have it, I lamented.   In several cases I was not-so-subtly told to lighten up.

One mother wrote to me and shared a story about how her daughter had prepared a healthy bowl of cereal in milk, clearly at least a half hour before it was eaten.  Although the milk had started to sour, this mother embraced the gesture in the spirit in which it was intended, and recognized that her daughter enjoyed doing something nice for her mom and clearly felt very grown up for doing so.  I must point out, however that no appliances or cutlery were used in the making of that breakfast!

Don't get me wrong, I am not saying that the genuine gift of a loving gesture toward a parent should be dismissed so easily.  However, in the case of breakfast in bed, I am not sure that the motivation behind the gesture is always so pure.  I suspect that at least sometimes, the children involved in these meals may have been bored, tired of waiting for their own food, or worse privy to what was going on behind closed doors.  In any case, the meal preparation and delivery may very well have been an act of passive aggressive rebellion by unsupervised children.  Hungry, unsupervised children.

To my delight, I received more than one story about parents who had received meals in bed after they had foolishly attempted to steal a few private moments together.  There was one couple, parents to four children and a Labrador retriever, who were forced to enjoy their breakfast in bed without letting their generous darlings know that they were wearing only their birthday suits under the covers.  An adult child rang in with a story about how she and her brother made their parents "dinner in bed" after their parents locked themselves in their bedroom for a "private meeting".  That meal was served, outside the door, with martinis included.  Perhaps I could overlook my compulsions if a martini were included, although I am not convinced.

My favorite response to my inquiry was from Jerry, father to three and grandfather to nine.  Jerry wrote, "Jayne, the thought is wonderful, but the results are often disastrous, ranging from crumbs in the bed to a nightmare in the kitchen.  I believe it should not be attempted by anyone under the age of 13 for girls . . . and 15 for boys."   

I then asked Jerry about how to convey his sentiments to children without seeming ungracious.  Ever-wise, Jerry responded, "Jayne, I would explain that there are other (and better) ways of expressing this affection."  While recognizing that when children "help" the "help" actually given often causes more work for the parent, Jerry suggested guiding the children toward other tasks, such as helping dad with the car, helping mom set the dinner table, working in the yard, etc.  

I wish I had Jerry's advice tucked in my head as I sloughed through my daughter's blankets, tripped over the overturned (yet thankfully still clean) vomit receptacle that had landed on the floor and proceeded down the stairs.  I entered the kitchen with a forced calm I did not know I could possess knowing that breakfast was being prepared while my husband and I both slept.  And there, on the kitchen counter, sat the dreaded tray, fully loaded.  One, unfortunate orange had clearly been hacked in half with a butter knife.

"We are not allowed to use the other knives so we are sorry about the funny shapes," I was told. I found this amusing given that the rule about not using the toaster oven seemed to have slipped their mind as I looked at the charred, buttered bread on the plate.  Believing it unnecessary, I had never actually given my children a rule about not using the coffee maker or coffee bean grinder, so it just let that go.  And then, there was the matter of that familiar yet unidentifiable smell.

"What is all this?" I asked my excited, jumping little friends.  

"Mom, you weren't supposed to come downstairs yet.  This is supposed to be breakfast in bed.  You need to get back upstairs right now," they yelped.  

After convincing them that I would much prefer to sit at the table with one of them on each side of me while I enjoyed their meal, we all settled in.  They waited expectantly as I raised the coffee cup to my lips and took the first sip.  Apparently my surprise did not register on my face as I swallowed.

"Can you make out the secret ingredient?" my son asked me with pride.  "It's cinnamon!" he exclaimed. 

"Oh really," I thought, "I don't think so."  "MMMMMMMMMMMMM," I said to him through my forced, blissful smile.  It was when I averted my eyes from his that I noticed the spice drawer had been pulled out, just enough to reveal where the confusion had occurred.   The cinnamon and the Old Bay Seasoning sat innocently side by side in the drawer, in similar containers.

"We know you have been working really hard and staying up really late to make everything special, so we wanted to do something special for you," they blurted earnestly, hugging me.  "Do you love it?" they asked me from their little upturned faces.  

With a change of enthusiasm to rival those of George Bailey, the Grinch and Ebenezer Scrooge I replied, "Every bite," and I even meant it.