Rarely since the birth of my progeny am I greeted with "Wakey. Wakey. Eggs and Bakey!" Don't think that the perfect creature that is the chunky flesh of my flesh (Here after referred to as FomF) has ruined my mornings. Before her birth I was responsible crowing that phrase through the house to rouse Son number 1 and my wife. Son 2 lies in bed in wait.... waiting for the moment when I release him from the confines of his bed as though her were a thoroughbred in the starting gate at Churchill Downs. I digress, I do my best Paul Revere lighting the way warning of the coming of the day. I would then cook the "boy breakfast."
This is loosely defined in my house as eggs in a style of your choosing, some hog of my choosing, OJ, and toast. Caveats include but are not limited to:
1. Given the choice Son 2 will always choose boiled eggs which take entirely too long
2. Two minute eggs are his number two option. This is Eggs scrambled with half and half and cooked quickly.
3. As Ice Cube lamented a breakfast without hog is no breakfast at all. ("Momma cooked a breakfast with no hog... damn" from It was a Good Day. Yeah I'm hood)
In short, I orchestrated mornings as a maestro conducts his masterwork. There were dance parties with Otis Redding, breakfasts better suited to a coven of lumberjacks, birds chirping, and the subjects were happy. Since the birth of the FomF our routine has fallen off. Breakfasts of cereal and pop-tarts. Coffee in the car on the school run. This will aggression will not stand. Routines must be formed and kept. I am not German and know that Otis may have to be replaced with the Reverend Al Green from time to time. Boiled can become scrambled. I am not a tyrant.
By the time I show up to teach my course on human anatomy to my students at eight in the morning, I have compromised my routine and had coffee in the car and a supplemental cup in my office. I then look up at them, take a deep breath and vomit knowledge all over their doughy little minds. Heaven forbid we have to talk about things that I think are neat or interesting. Bad day for them because they know nothing of morning. They have rolled out of bed, put on shoes, and wandered to the appropriate classroom on campus. That process resembles a slow moving blonde zombie apocalypse every morning on campus. By noon, hair is coiffed, clothes starched, peep-toe wedges are on but not at 7:55 when they roll up in my class.
I launch into a barrage of knowledge bombs, giddy with the excitement of a nerd who got a new Casio brand calculator watch. I work my self into a frenzy of misguided examples and asides to try and arouse any small spark of learning in my blond zombie hoard. I have caffeine coursing through my veins and science in my heart. They have drool running from the corners of their mouth and circles under their eyes. I have been awake for 2 hours and they are 2 minutes late. DNA will never be sexy to them at 8 in the morning.
This was the first half of the first week of my fall semester. The kids are good, wife is happy, students are scared, and I am hiding in my office waiting for lunch. At least that part is back to normal.
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