Nothing for Breakfast

[In relaunching the Graystuff.com blog on WordPress, I might as well start by carrying forward one of the old ones from the last system; I wrote this in September 2005, when S was 3.]

“So, what do you want for breakfast?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing.  Hmm.  Let me see if we have any.”  I open the cabinet, grab an imaginary box.  ”Hey, here’s the nothing.  Let me see if  there’s any left.  Yep, I think there’s still a bit in  there.  You want some?”

“Sure”, you reply.  You pull yourself up onto the stool at the breakfast counter.

“Hey, how about two cereals?  How about nothing and…Mini-Wheats.”

“No.”

“Okay, how about nothing and…All-Bran.”

“No.”

“Alright, how about…nothing and Oatmeal Squares?  Mommy just got some of those.”

“…Okay.”

“Mkay, let’s start with the nothing…is there enough in there?  Yep. I’ll put some of this in the bowl.”  The bright orange plastic bowl is about half full of nothing now.  ”There.  Want to look at the box? I’ll put that in front of you there…okay, now some oatmeal squares.
Here you go!”  Between the nothing and the Oatmeal Squares, the bowl is somehow pretty full.  I put it on your alphabet placemat, along with a strange plastic spoon from Ikea that has two little snail eyes at the other end of it.  In a matching color, because sometimes  that
turns out to be very important.

“I want to pour my own milk!”

“Sure thing.”  I get the little metal pitcher, originally an espresso machine accessory, that now serves mainly as your morning milk dispenser.  Fill it carefully with about the right amount of milk, as you haven’t quite mastered the idea of not dumping the entire pitcher-full into the bowl at once.

“Thanks.”  The dump goes pretty well.  You dig in.  Belatedly, I decide to snap a bib around your neck, just as a precaution.  You’re actually a fairly neat eater these days.

“So, how is your nothing?”

“Good!”  And you beam me the big milky smile that tells me you’re over the grogginess of just getting up, and getting back to your normal cheerful self.  I set up my coffee and bowl of raisin bran with banana slices, and join you at the counter.

“Can I have a taste of your nothing?”  You dip your spoon, hold it out to me.  I take a taste, wondering whether the box of nothing is going to become one of our daily rituals.  Which it does.

“Mmm,  that’s good nothing.  Thanks!”

“You’re welcome!”

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