This was the scene at our house on Sunday morning. Blueberry pancakes for breakfast, because we got the book Curious George Makes Pancakes out of the library last week and both kids have had pancakes on the brain ever since.
"Mommy, are we going to make them like Curious George maded them?" Sabrina asked (she hasn't quite gotten the hang of past tense). "Mommy, are they going to taste like the ones George made? Mommy, will they have a smiley face?"
"An-cakes! An-cakes!" Max said.
And so, there we were, whipping up a batch. A peaceful scene. A happy scene. A scene, however, that was a little haunted by ghosts of memories past.
Sunday mornings at our house used to be far from mellow, because it was such a trauma feeding Max. Yes, a trauma. He had a really hard time keeping food in his mouth because of poor oral-motor coordination, and at least half of whatever we'd spoon in would come out again. It could sometimes literally take an hour to feed him. We also needed to distract him, as otherwise he wouldn't sit at the table, so a DVD would be playing. And the mess was phenomenal. Those stressful mornings were the opposite of the cozy ones I'd always envisioned before I had kids.
These days, Sunday mornings are kind of relaxed, as relaxed as Sunday mornings can be with any kids at all. They're fun, too. Max can help mix the batter. He loves to watch the pancakes cooking. He tries to eat them by himself and Dave or I help with the rest. He is actually saying the word "pancake," which in itself is miraculous.
And yet, I feel a bit on edge, as if any second these mornings could be taken away from me and I'll return to the angst-ridden ones of the early years with Max.
Mostly, though, I enjoyed our pancake breakfast, in all its glorious, happy-faced stickiness.
With every meal, every day, every week, every month, every year, I am moving past the trauma.
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