Wired for breakfast


I’m now convinced that bacon and eggs has a magical quality to it. Either that, or whichever Old Wife made up the Tale about having a good breakfast was on to something.
My middle child, one recent weekend morning, had a soccer game on the calendar. As we all stirred, I suggested he’d better find his way to the table before we went so he wouldn’t get hungry during the game.
He grudgingly complied (he’s not really a morning guy), but wasn’t going down without a spite. He whined. He squirmed as if his seat was too hot. He yelped at me that I was wasting time that he could much better spend gaming or annoying his sister.
Though I was just trying to do the right thing, one of my personal biases was probably not helping. When time allows, I like to make the mornings a production. I love sitting down early to a hot plateful of pancakes, eggs, waffles, bacon, oatmeal (with brown sugar and walnuts!), whatever. My recently-acquired ideal would be a full Irish. That is, assuming I could be motivated to make that much stuff, and I had a job that required me to work in the fields.
I suspect many fathers feel similarly. Many of us were probably wired this way or inherited the gene, but weekends just don’t feel like weekends without at least one big breakfast. I’m apparently the only one in my house who hold this opinion, however, and I find everyone else’s lack of interest to be genuinely irksome.
But for this morning, I just wanted him to get some fuel in his little tank. Being that a full Irish wasn’t possible, and time was getting short, I asked him if he wouldn’t be pleased to have something called a “part-Irish” breakfast.
At his quizzical face, I suggested to him that this was something both traditional and special, the “part” being the bit of it that involved scrambled eggs and smoked bacon.
That popped something in his little subconscious. He sat and stared pensively at his plate, as I turned back to the pan. In the few moments it took me to get to the table with my plate, his became empty. The only evidence that anything had been there was the broad smile on his little face. I’m not sure how he could have tasted it. I had to look to make sure he didn’t eat the fork, too.
As we arrived at the game, the magic started. He bolted from my truck and jetted around to the field so he could line up with his team.
At the whistle, he was all over the place. He got in the middle of plays. He broke up drives. He took shots. He passed
When the coach eventually subbed him out, he actually resisted. For his whole break he skittered along the sideline like a hungry squirrel who can’t quite reach the bird feeder.
“Okay,” said the coach, pointing to him and his other teammate at a stop, “you two go in!”
“Yaaaay!!” he squawked as he darted back out.
Who was this kid?
I had to admit surprise. He didn’t let up for the whole game. Or, for that matter, stop moving at all when he wasn’t in. When it ended, I asked him how he felt. “Great!” he said. “I played good did you see me?!”
I told him that of course I saw him, and why did he play so well this time?
“Bacoooon!” he shouted.
But, he’s probably wired that way.


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