Lost a little of my grateful when my son finished breakfast by announcing, as he was rinsing his breakfast dishes, that he was hungry. “Can we have lunch now?”
It was almost eleven o’clock. We crashed this morning, after getting home at eleven last night. (Traffic turned the 45-minute drive into two hours thanks to multiple accidents on our freeways, including one apparently caused by people driving too quickly and carelessly immediately after the traffic jam caused by an accident. People are brilliant.)
“You can have lunch at noon,” I said, figuring that even Veggie Growth-Spurt Lad wouldn’t be up to that.
Oh, but he was. And after I spent almost half an hour last night moving things around and throwing things out in order to make room in our refrigerator for all the food it took me two days to cook, I Have No Survival Skills casually asked me, “Which one is the sausage pie?”
(For the record: it’s fake sausage. It’s really good, and you can enjoy it without prompting your veggie friends to make ghostly oinking sounds.)
It used to be that I would make the meal and clean up after the meal just in time to field a request for another meal. Now he can’t even stay fueled up long enough to survive the dishes getting washed. I remember feeling hungry all the time at this age, but that was because I was surrounded by anorexics of all ages and I wanted to fit in by starving myself. I’m glad he’s hungry because he’s growing and healthy and not being warped by creepy societal values — but one hour? Seriously? That’s all I get?