I realized halfway through my “breakfast” that I was eating burnt toast. I feel justified about putting the word “breakfast” in quotations because it’s not really even a shadow of that meal I used to know in which I could sit quietly at a table and read something and think about how Joni Mitchell turned an absolutely perfect phrase when she wrote about how, in the morning, the sun poured in like butterscotch and stuck to all her senses.
Instead, I now stand up during the event, delivering sippy cups and retrieving spoons from the sticky floor and fielding constant demands for more or less of everything and anything a toddler might desire.
So, the toast was burnt and that wasn’t going to change because I didn’t actually have time to taste the piece I was eating anyway, let alone make a new one. And that is my life right now, a mom of 3 kids aged 3 and under. The burnt toast phenomenon somehow seems like a perfectly appropriate metaphor.
amommymous
