|Have I never shown you a picture of my bedroom? By all means...|
I hope all of you had a fantastic weekend. I just finished throwing the last of our tradition in the trash can. "Tradition" here may also be called doughnuts...or doughnut...or whatever a mostly whole Bismark stuck to one-fourth of a glazed doughnut would be. Maybe I should call the monstrosity I just threw away, "Al". Either or, that's all that was left of the memories I tried to make with the twins. Because I'm constantly trying to cobble together experiences and traditions that two-year-olds will never remember, going to the doughnut store when they woke at 6:30am yesterday morning seemed like a great idea.
But, like most things I attempt to make into traditional Saturday morning fare, this one will not be resumed for a long while. Mostly because....
Doughnut Man: Good morning mam. You three are up early.
Me: Yes, normally they let me sleep in till noon, but we thought experiencing a sunrise together would be, oh, how do the French say, "Très beau à regarder".
Doughnut Man: What does that mean?
Me: I believe the correct translation would be, "Men who ask silly questions are doomed to be eaten by a thousand frogs."
Doughnut Man: What can I get for you, this morning?
Me: A dozen doughnuts, please.
Doughnut Man: What kind would you like?
Me: Something Vicodin-filled would be ideal, but I suppose an assortment will do. Excuse me while I extract my son's hand from that plugged in crock pot you left in the front of your store. I see when you advertise your biscuits and gravy breakfast, you prefer to have it where people from the highway can see it.
Doughnut Man: If there's a kind you don't see, just let us know and we can make it.
Me: Unless you have the kind that, once eaten, allows me to travel back in time and find out the exact date my thighs gained the ability to clap out the entire William Tell Overture, then I'll just have two of those blueberry and the rest smothered in chocolate.
Doughnut Man: Here you go. You guys have a nice day. Or would you two like to come back and help us make doughnuts?
Me: I'd like to thank you for the awkward box I'm now carrying along with the fact your previous statement just caused Sundance to run back to the kitchen and Butch to streak across the parking lot.
Doughnut Man: She looks like she wants to help make doughnuts.
Me: Sir, she's been sleeping in a swimsuit with a tutu on it for the last three days. Of course she wants to make doughnuts.
Doughnut Man: Have a nice day!
Me: We will. Especially after I spend the day caressing this box lovingly, eating what I think is one or two, and realizing, by 6pm, that I've just split fourteen doughnuts (they threw in two extra because they realized I still fit behind my steering wheel) three ways.
So, between wrangling the twins and wrangling my thighs, we'll be doing our next doughnut trip somewhere around next Memorial Day. I'd love to hear your Saturday morning traditions because mine are half-eaten and in the trashcan.
Until Next Time, Readers!