Oatmeal

 

This morning I announced that we were having oatmeal for breakfast.  I received a less-than-enthusiastic response.

“Eeewww!  I am NOT eating that!  It’s all mushy!  Can’t you make me something else?”

It sounded very similar to the response I got on Friday, when I had made rice, sugar and cinnamon.

As the hairs on my neck began to prickle, signaling the beginning of a rampage about ingratitude, I had a sudden flashback to my childhood.

I was the child, and my mom came in to wake me up in the morning.  She turned on the light, which was annoyingly bright, and started singing an annoyingly cheerful song.

“Doodah (good) morning, dear Christi, doodah morning to you!  I am happy to see you, because I love you!”

The first words out of my mouth, from under the pillow, were always  a grumbly “What’s for breakfast?”  If it was something good, like muffins and orange julius, then I would get out of bed without further complaint. 

If, however, she had the nerve to make something like oatmeal, I felt I had the right to be grumpy all morning.

I have come to appreciate the sacrifice that my mom made every morning.  I, because of her example, get up before my children every morning.  I allow myself enough time to wake up, do my morning scripture study, and prepare a hot breakfast.  Then I wake everyone else up by playing Hymns on the piano.

But I’m afraid that is where my sainthood ends.  If anyone has the audacity to complain about what I’ve made… happy, cheerful mom is done.

I guess I have a ways to go before I am as gracious as my mother.