I will make you breakfast

One of the morning tasks I struggled hard to get used to was to get up earlier than the maya birds to rouse my son from sleep.  I would open his bedroom door, careful not to make it squeak, and whisper close to his ears, “Wake up, sleepyhead.” He’d moan faintly but not stir.  I had to ask Paz, my hefty-muscled housekeeper, to scoop him up from bed and carry him straight to our VW beetle while I took the wheel and drove 20 kilometers to his play school.   

The car cruising at a steady pace would finally stir him up.  After one big lion’s yawn, he’d ask, “Are we there yet?” 

That was my cue. I’d park the car outside the school grounds and brush his teeth, wash his face, give him a sponge bath, feed him poached eggs and two pieces of toasts smothered with peanut butter followed by freshly squeezed orange juice.  Next, the PJs come out to be replaced by the school uniform with a checkered smock and bib — all done inside our tight, space-challenged car.  With his hands wrapped in mine, I’d deposit him to his Junior Casa teacher and that was when I got one of those don’t-blink-bear-hugs followed by a slight push, “Mom, you can go now.”

Any slight deviation from this daily routine brought on one of those rainy-days- and-Mondays kind of blues.  Timing had to be synched so that everyone in the house performed his or her assigned tasks within the same time frame.  We kept this routine for a spell until I enrolled my “terrible two” in a regular class garbed in his spunky khaki shorts and white cotton shirt jack.

Each growth spurt had its attendant change in food preferences.  Being a thoughtful son — or just doubtful of his mom’s ability in the kitchen — he left notes on the kitchen counter before he went to bed.  Of course, this groggy mother panicked upon reading his notes the following day.  He wants champurado this morning?  Not the instant quickie kind but the genuine sticky rice with the thick batirol-rolled chocolate?  Will you settle for Vegemite with thick butter on toast?

When he reached Grade 8, his notes became shorter and simpler.  He bought food from the canteen.  He discovered the excitement of pulling out fresh bills from his pocket and actually being given the choice to spend it (or save it).  “Mom, can you give me extra baon money?” I would pout, just for effect, when I was actually the happiest mother to retire her apron.     

Breakfast notes saved by the author Letty Lopez from her son

Could breakfast dictate the kind of day one would have? Burned toast and there sprung a fury from Brothers Grimm.  Flopped pancakes and the day would lose its zing.  Break the yoke resulted in a dry un-wiggly sunny-side-up egg and the garlic rice would become harder to fluff and mix.  If the bacon was not fried well and the oil not drained on paper towel, the crispness was silenced for life.  And if there were no freshly ground robusta or civet beans, a dark cloud would form on the head of my other morning zombie, i.e., the husband, and that too brought an imminent, emotional thunderstorm.

Breakfast is so important that someone actually invented an alarm clock that blew whiffs of freshly brewed coffee to catch your nostrils instead of the traditional beep-beep.  Try filling your bedroom with the scent of freshly baked baguettes, flaky croissant and scones and you were guaranteed to stumble and grapple your way to the kitchen nook.

When my friend Becky was being courted by her husband Patrice, he promised that he would serve her breakfast in bed for the rest of their married life.  I actually watched Patrice do it and I was bawled over.  He climbed the stairs balancing two sets of trays — one with the multi-stocked waffles, bacon, cheese, brioche and butter while the other tray contained a selection of fresh herb teas, brewed coffee and the thickest hot chocolate drink from Spain.  There was also a single bud plucked from the garden. 

“Wow!” I marveled, “Tell me this can’t be forever.” 

Becky giggled, “Mon prince charmant.” (My prince charming).

Breakfast brings back memories of my children and the meals I prepared painstakingly with a rush of panic.  “Wake up, pretty little rosebud,” I whispered to my bunso daughter.  She rubbed her eyes and said, “Mama, what’s my breakfast?”  “Steamed buns, congee, banana fritters, tuna cheese omelet, pork and beans, walnut and pistachio flapjacks with your choice of blueberry, strawberry, butter Pecan and maple syrup.  Take your pick,” I replied.

 “Being a mom is the hardest job in the world.  But it is also the best,” said one commercial from Procter & Gamble to celebrate everything that all moms do to help their children achieve success.

“Thank you Mom, for making me breakfast.  It is the first act of love to welcome a bright new day, every day.

(signed) Forever your chiquitings (kittens)