He’s my early riser. The first one to shuffle down the hallway with sleepy eyes and tousled hair.
“I wish we could make pancakes this morning momma.”
So we do. Because it’s summer and we have no deeds to do, no promised to keep. We make pancakes; just the two of us. It’s not often that my second born son gets me all to himself.
I dig through the bottom of the pantry and unearth the griddle. He gets the Bisquick box out and reads the ingredients. I measure milk. He reenacts Chip & Dale cartoons for me. He doesn’t really know which one is Chip and which is Dale (neither do I for that matter) so he calls them “funny chipmunk” and “funniest chipmunk”.
The pat of butter drops, sizzles and slides across the black griddle. He grins.
We make pancakes in all different sizes. He makes “baby pancakes”. I attempt to make a “G” and fail miserably. We make heart pancakes. We’re good a heart pancakes.
The rest of the house starts to wake up. The kitchen is smelling good. But for a little while it was just the two of us, making pancakes on a slow summer morning.