I’m the mom here. Who the hell is in my kitchen? My husband makes coffee…for himself. Unless I’m already up and then he’ll make me a cup. But breakfast? Hell-to the- No. Seemingly that is MY job and mine alone. I have to tell someone “There’s a cure for that,” when they complain about being hungry. (I mean NOW that they are all ambulatory and in their teens, of course.)
So when I smelled frying breakfast meats this morning, I got half of my dopey grin on….and then panicked! I ran out the bedroom door and into the kitchen and found RANDA blocking the kitchen door. She burped in my face. “Randa, did you make breakfast for yourself?” I asked. The rest of the exchange went something like this:
Randa: Uh, yeah!
Me: Randa, do we have anymore bastarma (Egyptian garlic-cured beef)?
Randa: Nope. It’s gone.
Me: Randa, you ate a half pound of bastarma by yourself?
Randa: (flutters eyes around…in some autistic kids, refusing eye-contact means
“I can’t hear you” when clearly, they can AND DO understand they’re
Me: Did you eat? Do you feel better now?
Randa: Uh, yeah. All better. Sleepy. Go to bed now. (She doesn’t refer to herself
in the first person much.)
Me: (looking past her toward the sink) LOOK AT THIS BIG FAT MESS!!
Me: Randa, did you make cookies? Oh.My.God. There’s batter in every mixing
bowl. Did you use all the bakers chocolate? Did you bake?
Randa: (mimicking me and laughing?) …bakers chocolate? Did you bake?
Me: That’s not funny.
Randa: That’s not funny.
Me: You wanna wash the dishes?
Randa: You wanna wash the dishes?
Me: You are so grounded. Look at this big fat mess!
Randa: Yeah, it’s big fat mess. Mommy clean up. Sweet dreams.
And so it begins. Pre-coffee.