Breakfast at the Table

With Kristin and Clara at the doctor's office, and the chair in its new home in the nursery, I had a few minutes to eat some breakfast. I prepared my bowl of cereal with yogurt and an English muffin with peanut butter. I pulled out The End and sat quietly at the kitchen table, munching my meal, and turning my back on the dirty dishes piled behind me.

It was nice to have a few minutes to relax, eat, and read a little. As I sat enjoying my few moments of sanity, I suddenly had a strong sense of déjà vu. After searching my mind for the moment I was vu-ing, I realized that I've seen this sight almost every day of my growing-up years. Each morning, my mother would pour a bowl a cereal, get a glass of juice and a vitamin, and sit at the table to eat her breakfast and read the newspaper. To high school Oliver, this was an odd ritual. Breakfast was something that should take less than two minutes, unless it involved IHOP.

However, to new father Oliver, my mother's breakfast ritual suddenly made sense. Having a few minutes to sit, a few minutes to enjoy the quiet before the noise began, a few minutes to do something I enjoy, that's what my mother was looking for. It doesn't seem so odd now, taking the time while eating to breathe a little.

Now I understand.