I know most people like to keep their cereal in the pantry, or a cabinet, or maybe, as favored by TV's finest sitcoms, on top of the refrigerator. We don't roll that way here at the Bunker, folks. MJ likes to keep our cereal in unusual, yet convenient, places. Take yesterday morning, for example. She was sitting in her chair, waiting for breakfast.
"Can I have Pops, Mommy?"
"Sure you can," I said, welcoming a request I could handle for once.
Pops, in our house, means Rice Krispies. There's a whole cereal key one must know to feed my child, and it goes something like this: Wheaties = "Wheezies"; Cheerios = "Super Whys"; Frosted Mini Wheats = "Daddy's Cereal" and so on.
So I trudged over to the pantry. No Pops. I glanced on the always populated countertops. No Pops. Hmmm.
"Sweet pea, I can't find the Pops. How 'bout something else? How 'bout Wheezies."
"Noooo! I want Pops!"
"Well I just don't see them anywhere," I said, reaching for the Bat Phone. "Let's call Daddy."
Ring!
"Mommy, try looking over there, in that room," MJ grinned, directing me from her throne.
I guessed she meant the coat closet. How cute. OK, let's play the game where I look in a hundred different impossible places for cereal that won't be there, because it's fun and MJ gets to pretend to order me around.
I opened the closet with great drama. "No, I don't see them in here," I said, louder than necessary, as though the Pops were purposely hiding from me and snickering somewhere in a corner, waiting to be found.
"No Mommy," MJ said, smiling at the fun of it all. "That room."
And then, call it maternal instinct, something sunk into the pit of my stomach, into that little pouch where acid churns freely because somewhere, there is a mess that will have to be cleaned up. I walked into the never-used living room and saw a sight not unlike the time when my friend Julie, who was strung out on Dr. Pepper and fogged over from working on a thesis, stood in the kitchen of our apartment and casually chatted as though she hadn't dropped a bag of popcorn all over the floor hours earlier and left it there, like grass seed for the linoleum. (Linoleum seed?)
"Oh, and by the way," she had ended the conversation an hour later, "I'm just going to leave this popcorn here until I finish my thesis."
"Sweet," I had said, appreciatively. "That sounds awesome."
I don't know how MJ had gotten the Pops, or how long they had been there ... but an opened box lay on its side underneath our coffee table and tiny little Snaps and Crackles emanated from its opening, decorating the rug in a kind of brilliant starburst figure. I knelt down to retrieve the package, which was silently laughing at me, and heard MJ giggle from the kitchen.
"See, Mommy?" she called. "That room."
"Can I have Pops, Mommy?"
"Sure you can," I said, welcoming a request I could handle for once.
Pops, in our house, means Rice Krispies. There's a whole cereal key one must know to feed my child, and it goes something like this: Wheaties = "Wheezies"; Cheerios = "Super Whys"; Frosted Mini Wheats = "Daddy's Cereal" and so on.
So I trudged over to the pantry. No Pops. I glanced on the always populated countertops. No Pops. Hmmm.
"Sweet pea, I can't find the Pops. How 'bout something else? How 'bout Wheezies."
"Noooo! I want Pops!"
"Well I just don't see them anywhere," I said, reaching for the Bat Phone. "Let's call Daddy."
Ring!
Him: Hey.
Me: What's shakin'?
Him: Not much.
Me: Any idea where the Pops are?
Him: The Pops?
Me: Yeah. Those. We've lost them. We didn't know who else to call.
Him: I don't know where they are.
Me: Did she eat them all?
Him: No, she couldn't have. There should be half a box somewhere.
Me: Yeah. That's what I thought. Just wanted to confirm.
Him: OK. I have to go work now.
Me: Yeah, OK. Whatever.
"Mommy, try looking over there, in that room," MJ grinned, directing me from her throne.
I guessed she meant the coat closet. How cute. OK, let's play the game where I look in a hundred different impossible places for cereal that won't be there, because it's fun and MJ gets to pretend to order me around.
I opened the closet with great drama. "No, I don't see them in here," I said, louder than necessary, as though the Pops were purposely hiding from me and snickering somewhere in a corner, waiting to be found.
"No Mommy," MJ said, smiling at the fun of it all. "That room."
And then, call it maternal instinct, something sunk into the pit of my stomach, into that little pouch where acid churns freely because somewhere, there is a mess that will have to be cleaned up. I walked into the never-used living room and saw a sight not unlike the time when my friend Julie, who was strung out on Dr. Pepper and fogged over from working on a thesis, stood in the kitchen of our apartment and casually chatted as though she hadn't dropped a bag of popcorn all over the floor hours earlier and left it there, like grass seed for the linoleum. (Linoleum seed?)
"Oh, and by the way," she had ended the conversation an hour later, "I'm just going to leave this popcorn here until I finish my thesis."
"Sweet," I had said, appreciatively. "That sounds awesome."
I don't know how MJ had gotten the Pops, or how long they had been there ... but an opened box lay on its side underneath our coffee table and tiny little Snaps and Crackles emanated from its opening, decorating the rug in a kind of brilliant starburst figure. I knelt down to retrieve the package, which was silently laughing at me, and heard MJ giggle from the kitchen.
"See, Mommy?" she called. "That room."
Jaci
June 3, 2008 2:21 PM