Last Saturday morning, I was awakened by a cocktail weenie-sized finger pressing deeply into my eyeball.
“Dad, wake up,” my son London said, one hand placed on the hip of his T-rex pajamas.
“Can’t I sleep?”
“No way.” He pressed his face close to mine so the tips of our noses touched. “You need to make me breakfast.” I followed him into the living room where he pointed to the television. London no longer needs to verbalize; I know my master likes cartoons, preferably from the Power Ranger school of candy-colored ass kicking. On this morning, we had only two channels of kidfluff to choose from and he made me switch back and forth until he found a scene that agreed with his complicated sense of aesthetics.
“Ok. Now pancakes,” he said which translates into adultspeak as get your butt in there and start cooking.
In the kitchen, I moved quickly to The Joy of Cooking’s flapjack recipe wondering whether the title of this timeless tome was somehow mocking me.
“Dad. Juice!” London yelled and I dutifully filled his sippy-cup with the pressings of the rare cran-grape berry and carried it over on a Dora the Explorer breakfast tray. I hoped he wouldn’t notice the lack of fresh flowers or pressed linen napkins.
“Dad. Am I a big boy?” he asked, taking his eyes from Pikachu, a character who looks a bit like a sperm with horns.
“Yes you are, sahib.” I bowed at the waist.
“I want a Poppy cup, not a London cup.” A Poppy cup is more mature glassware named after his eight-year-old sister. It’s a small container that came with the purchase of eight ounces of overpriced jelly. I darted back, switched glasses and then returned to my station. I slurped coffee with one hand while flipping the griddlecakes with the other. I then slathered them with butter, syrup and cut the stack into uniform bite sized pieces. When I presented the plate to my mini-manager, he shrieked, “You know I don’t like butter!” like Joan Crawford discussing hangers of the wire variety in Mommy Dearest. He was right, though. Poppy likes butter, her brother doesn’t. London likes his PB&J sandwiches cut in fours, his garlic toast carved in sixteenths, his granny smith apples whole, and his bagel with cream cheese (not butter). I recalled the way I was treated as a kid, a far cry from this beck-and-call brand of parenting. You could boil my dad’s philosophy to “eat or starve. I don’t give a rat’s ass.” I used to think such gruff methods were unkind but now I’m not so sure.
I prepared another stack closer to London’s liking but instead of thanks, he glanced away like a jilted lover. “What’s wrong, Londy?” I was sure I’d done everything right.
“No bacon?” he asked on the brink of tears.
By the time Lala and Poppy rose, I was sweating on my way to a good-sized stroke. The womenfolk didn’t notice my predicament, nor did they offer to help. Lala poured herself coffee and Poppy’s glazed eyes locked on the television. I crossed my arms like an unmedicated housewife and glared at Lala.
“What’s wrong?” she asked me, still cozy in her pajamas.
“I’ve been slaving for close to an hour. I haven’t had a moment for myself.” The high-pitched tone of my voice was embarrassing even to me. All I needed now was a housecoat and hair lumpy with curlers.
“You mean Self America, Dad,” London commented, his mouth full of sugary batter.
“What?” I asked and then realized he had somehow replaced the word “South” with the word “Self.” These verbal misappropriations happen all the time though this one seemed more spot-on than the others had been.
“Self America,” he said confidently.
“Where is Self America?” Lala asked, trying to conceal a smile.
“Right here,” he said and pointed to the throne he was so regally perched upon. “More syrup, Dad!” was my next command.