He wakes up a little grumpy. Scrumptious, warm, cute as a stinking button, but grumpy.
Asks what's for breakfast. Gets the same answer. Complains about it. Asks for a compromise. Gets denied. Asks again. Denied again. Told to like it or go hungry. Pouts.
Forgets what he's pouting about and begins the first of what will certainly be 1,000, "Hey, Mom! Guess what?" stories.
At this point we usually take a peek at our ducks and swans to see what's going on in their lives. The lake has been frozen this week, so we've been missing our little floaters and squakers.
Every morning, this guy finds his brother in the chair. Smacks him around a bit. Laughs. Begins making what will surely be the first of 1,000 messes.
Asks for "Mi-mins," and cries when I only give him one.
Every morning he tries to sit next to Titus at the breakfast table and is denied. He's a food thief.
He insists on no lids.
He accepts what is offered. Decides he doesn't like it. Buttered toast dipped in hot chocolate? I ate it every morning when I was a kid. He's not a fan.
Every morning, he starts our day off with a spilled drink. A stack of sopping wet napkins. A smorgasbord of everyone else's left overs.
Every morning I notice the light in our kitchen and dining room. This morning, I made good use of it.