Mornings in our house aren’t for sissies. A typical day in our house begins with a declaration of parent vs. child war, usually in the form of our 4 year old either falling or jumping from the top steps of her bunk bed, Wrestlemania-Style. The girls’ bunk beds are located in the room directly above my wife and I, so we get the full surround-sound intro to the Great Show. From the noises coming directly above us, my wife and I were pretty certain that the Mano-A-Mano Title Bout above us has devolved into what sounded like a Twelve-Man Royal Rumble. Apparently, the winner of the Royal Rumble was also required to perform approximately 283 wind sprints from one side of the second floor to the other before they were allowed to eat breakfast. It sounded like an angry octopus wearing combat boots doing cartwheels up and down the hallway.
The wife grabbed a broom handle we keep next to our bed for just such occasions and started banging on the ceiling to the let the performers upstairs know that the bout had been scored and it was time for their post-victory breakfast. The Second-Floor Combatants descended the stairs and met us in the living room, their hunger obvious on their faces. As is customary, my wife began taking requests for sustenance from the Cage Match Trio. Our eldest daughter, Kaylee, has an obsession with honey buns, so naturally that’s what she wanted for breakfast. An easy enough request due to our extensive knowledge of the eating habits of our children. Our middle cage-match contestant, Aimee, asked for cereal. No wait, pop tarts. No, nevermind, cereal. Ok, pop tarts. So we gave her a pop tart. Covered in cereal. Just to be safe. Then came little Lucy. Lucy had time to carefully consider her request while her older sisters put in their orders with Café Dé Mom and Dad. Yet, when it came time for her to speak up, she looked to us as if she wasn’t sure whether she should say what she was thinking. Being the sensitive, reassuring, supportive, good-looking parents that we are, we told her that she could have whatever she wanted.
French fries. She asked for french fries for breakfast. And I was….strangely okay with it. Now, for those of you who consider yourselves breakfast connoisseurs and/or child nutrition experts and might have an opinion on the nutritional value of french fries for breakfast– shut up. Sometimes you have to make french fries for breakfast because A) it’s an awesome request and B) I’m kind of upset that I never considered it.
We don’t believe in spoiling our kids. They are well aware of the work vs. reward concept that we try to follow and they’re honestly pretty well-behaved and hard working for their young age. As I’ve said in previous posts, we’re not only trying to raise good kids– we’re trying to make great adults. But sometimes you just need to let your kids be kids. I love the imagination it took to specifically ask for french fries for breakfast. And, while it probably isn’t surprising that a two-year-old would ask for french fries for breakfast, it reminds me of just how different kids view the world around them. Her mentality is “french fries are awesome and delicious. Why shouldn’t I be able to eat them whenever I want to?”
So, while my wife got the pop tarts, cereal, and honey buns I fired up the deep fryer and busted out those crinkle-cut pieces of potato awesomeness and made my baby some mothertrucking french fries for breakfast. I might have eaten some too.
What a world we live in where we have to be reminded by a toddler to take pleasure in the little things. That’s why, despite the constant barrage of noise and glitter, I’m thankful for the unwavering uniqueness that is our house– Noisetopia.