There was a red scribble at the bottom. Sensing the confusion mixed with the horror in my expression, Allie motioned for me to bend down close so she could whisper in my ear. Cupping her hand she whispered, “The red is supposed to be blood.”
“Holy, Smurfing Care Bears! Who are these kids?!” I thought as I slowly straightened up and looked over at the mother on the couch. She looked up and smiled adoringly at me for feeding her hungry offspring, completely oblivious to the murderous extortion taking place at that very instant and not five feet away from where she sat.
Fast forward to the present where I slowly drag out mixing bowls, pancake mix, an egg, milk (not to be confused with “sugar milk”), cinnamon, vanilla, brown sugar, flax seed, and…. “Oh, dear Lord, let there be frozen blueberries in the freezer,” I pray as I rifle through the freezer. “No, no, no… Yes!” There is a God and He pities me. It’s much better for me to get up early and prepare everything in advance so as to avoid such pitfalls as not having blueberries on hand. It makes for a harmonious morning with less tension in the air.
I used to sleep in, letting Ashley get up with the girls to feed them cereal and turn on cartoons so she could fall back to sleep on the couch. However, as soon as she would start snoring loud enough to drown out the TV, Allie and Avery would push away from the table and proceed downstairs to express their displeasure with me.
I would open my eyes, to the blurry sight of the girls standing next to bed. Their faces would be eerily expressionless. “It’s time.” Avery would say simply in a flat monotone voice, and Allie would raise her arm to show me a red crayon as if to say, “You know what this means, don’t you?” Taking the none-too-subtle hint, I would roll out of bed and head up to the kitchen to perform my duty.
On my way, I’d pass a practically unconscious Ashley slumbering unaware on the couch prompting a reminder by one the girls. “Don’t wake mother,” they would say in that same monotone voice, but with the notable hint of a creepy English accept.
Nervously, I’d whip up a heaping batch of blueberry pancakes hoping to meet with their approval, but the pressure to perform in front of such a demanding and cutthroat audience increased my chances of making a potentially fatal mistake. There have been some close calls, eventually prompting me to my current routine of waking up ahead of time. On one occasion, I forgot to add flaxseed.
“Hey!” Avery said throwing her fork on the table. “Where’s the flaxseed?”
I tried to smooth it over; amazed she could even tell it was missing. “I’m sorry, Sweetie, I forgot…” But she cut me off.
“Forgot?! You
forgot?!” her tone more accusing than questioning.
“Forgot? What did Ron forget, my little angel?” It was Ashley standing at the top of the stairs. Somehow she miraculously manages to wake each Saturday morning without fail just at the moment I start serving the first round of my “griddle manna.” “What do they think you forgot, dear?” she then asked me. But as I opened my mouth to speak, it wasn’t my voice that I heard.
“Mommy! Ron put
sugar milk in the pancakes!” Allie said while starting to rub her eyes as if she were crying. “He said he ‘forgot’ that you said he couldn’t use it anymore.” It took me a day and a half to convince Ashley otherwise, and at no small price.
On another occasion, I used frozen mixed berries instead of the outrageously more expensive blueberries. The mixed berries had of blueberries, but it also consisted of blackberries, raspberries, and strawberries (which Allie detests). I clung to a single hope that I could make the substitution and the girls would be none the wiser, and maybe, with any luck, they might even like this new version better. Things were going along better than I anticipated with Allie and Avery each having gulped down four “modified” pancakes before Ashley casually mentioned how she really like the way I mixed in the raspberries and especially the strawberries.
“Aren’t these good pancakes, girls?” Ashley said to the girls. “Tell Ron what a good pancake maker he is.”
I slowly turned to face the girls who were nodding in agreement and wearing large fake grins that accentuated their oversized cheeks stuffed full of pancake and mixed berries. I nervously smiled back as a sign of my gratitude, hoping to gain some small amount of mercy from Allie and Avery. It was not to be.
As soon as Ashley got up to give me a peck on the cheek and put her plate in the sink, the forced smiling ceased. Allie put her thumb to her throat and slowly drug it under her chin in a simulated slashing motion and then pointed at me. When their mom turned back around the girls’ smile immediately re-appeared, and then faded slowly as Ashley walked away, clueless that my life was now hanging in the balance. Once she had disappeared down the stairs Allie and Avery turned back towards me and spit the contents of their mouth out onto the floor for me to pick up. I can’t remember quite what happened next, but for the record, as part of the terms of the confidentiality agreement, I am not allowed to disclose the detailed concessions made in order to remain among the living. I will say it was steep and involved
marbles and possibly a voodoo doll bearing my likeness.
That incident was the final straw convincing me I needed to be awake and ready before everyone else. Now I have the batter made, the griddle perfectly heated and the blueberries thawed, making me as ready as I can be for Allie and Avery’s demand for stacks of golden pancakes. As I mentioned earlier, this routine makes for a more pleasant morning with the girls not behaving with that Children-of-the-Corn demeanor. In fact, they usually smile at me as they enter the kitchen, knowing I have accepted my role as the On Call Pancake Production Specialist and thus recognize my place within the household.
At 6:45AM, they appear right on schedule all bright and cheery upon seeing I have prepared for today’s session.
“Fix us some pancakes, clown!” Allie demands while climbing up to the table.
“Ya,” Avery echoes as she joins her sister. “I want blueberry pancakes, Funnyman!”
I’ll admit, it’s a bit demeaning to take such abuse from a six and four year old, but it’s better than dying a horrible death for refusing.
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