It think it’s fair to assume that when Jesus chose to rise again on Easter Sunday, he at least waited until the sun had come up.
Not true, however, of my children this recent Easter Sunday.
You see the kids and I had invited ourselves around to Mistress M and The Sculptor’s house for a sleepover. It should be noted here that this was the third weekend in a row where I had found myself nestled deep in the warm bosom of another family’s hospitality. And yes, I’m starting to develop a serious fetish for having someone else’s husband making me toast and coffee on a Sunday morning.
In this particular case, however, I was careful to have started my campaign for ‘toast and coffee’ a few days in advance by telephone. I didn’t want another situation like we had on New Year’s Day where I found myself shouting “WHERE’S MY FUCKING TOAST?” outside the slumbering Sculptor’s bedroom door.
I needn’t have worried. Our children, by rising at five-fucking-thirty-AM, made sure that a) The Sculptor was out of bed and b) there was a pressing need for coffee. He set about making it immediately.
“Do you take sugar?” The Sculptor asked as he handed me my cup.
“No, I’m sweet enough!” I replied, brightly. Giving that answer never grows old. Never. In fact, it’s fair to say that I gave up sugar in my coffee just so I could give that answer Every. Single. Time. for the rest of my life and get a little jolt of pleasure from my own wit Every. Single. Time. It’s the little things, people.
“And the toast?” I reminded the Sculptor sweetly.
“Oh, do you want toast?” he replied, feigning surprise.
“OF COURSE I FUCKING WANT TOAST,” I said, before immediately changing tack and adding demurely: “But no, no, no… not now. It’s far too early for you to be making me toast… ”
After all, everyone knows that you have to refuse at least once before forcing someone to bend entirely to your toast-eating will.
Apparently, the Sculptor is not “everybody”.
“Are you sure?” he said cheerfully in a way that made me realise he wasn’t actually asking a question. “In which case, I might go back to bed for a while.”
And with that, he practically said “Toodle doo!” and skipped back to his room, leaving me toastless and with the task of keeping five rabid children in the house until there was enough light for them to see the frickin’ eggs hidden in the garden.
Luckily, Mistress M got up to help me supervise the easter egg hunt and, while I tried to go back to bed myself for a while (turns out five children, high on chocolate, riding scooters in the wooden corridor outside your room makes for less than optimal sleeping conditions… who knew?), she got busy making toast – and not only toast, but crispy bacon and eggs to go with that toast.
God, I love that woman.
Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the children and I are now on the market for a sleepover next Saturday night for anyone who’s willing. I like my toast medium-rare (two slices: one with a ‘main course’ topping such as vegemite and one with a ‘dessert’ topping, such as raspberry jam) and I have my coffee white with no sugar because, well, I’m sweet enough.
See? It never gets old.
Not Drowning, Mothering. 