This morning, Audrey and her little family came to Grandma and Pop-up’s (that's what they call Grandpa) for breakfast.
And there are many “rules” to breakfast with three little guys, a pregnant mama and one hungry daddy.
First, the bacon must be already sizzling when they arrive. Audrey loves the sounds and aromas of bacon. It reminds her of going to her Nana Flo’s house for breakfast when she was a little girl. Nana Flo had the not-so-secret-anymore recipe of mixing bacon grease (I can’t believe I’m sharing this compete-and-total saturated fat secret) with her pancake batter to create the most delectably crunchy pancakes imaginable, and Pop-up has mastered the art. And oh yeah, Audrey has craved bacon this entire pregnancy with her little Henry!
Second, and very important… the coffee must be ready. Not brewing. Ready.
Third, Pop-up better not have already mixed the pancake batter. 3-year old William loves to help Pop-up measure and combine the eggs, milk and batter into the smooth and creamy mix. And he loves to chat with Pop-up about the entire process.
Next, it is a pretty good idea for me to have 11-month old Benjamin’s oatmeal cereal and bananas ready. Benjamin has to be the easiest baby I have ever met, but the little guy loves his morning meal!
Last, I should have 2-year old Alexander’s counter space pretty clear. He must climb by himself onto his stool at the counter where he can color with his crayons ‘til the “pancanks” are served.
And everything went as expected… except for Ally. He sauntered into our house holding his Little Tykes boom box. Without taking off his coat or hat, he pressed a couple of buttons on his boom box and said to me, “Dance, Grandma.”
“Okay, Honey.” This is what Grandmas do.
So I moved my arms a little while simultaneously helping Audrey with coats, hats and mittens. This is what Moms do.
“DANCE, Grandma!” was Ally’s response to my “dancing.”
A couple more buttons. Another little tune. “Okay.” Now I move my arms a little more rhythmically and add leg movement.
Well, not rhythmically enough.
“DANCE, Grandma… DANCE,” was Ally’s response to my obviously pathetic attempt at breakfast disco.
So I danced. Arms. Legs. Spins. Dips. Twist. Freakin’ Limbo.
I danced to Little Tykes with wild abandon.
Let me just say here that I cocktail waitressed my way through college (one very long stint where my “uniform” was a red tie-up-the-center corset with white ruffled panties… yes), and I was often on-duty for morning/breakfast business meetings where pillars of society asked me if I “danced.” Well, no. But that was the early 70’s.
And anyway, I guess all that waitressing and hey-she-looks-like-a-dancer prepared me in great measure for my darling little grandson asking his Grandma to get her groove on.
Hey, at least he didn’t toss me a quarter.
That’s a lesson for another breakfast.
Thanks, Little Ally… you made my day!