Saturday mornings in my house do not start with an alarm clock. They start with six kids stampeding down the stairs at 6 a.m. like somebody rang a dinner bell, announcing that they are STARVING, as if I have not fed them every single day of their lives.
So last Saturday I had a brilliant idea. A cereal bar. You know, the cute kind from the internet. Little bowls lined up, toppings in tiny dishes, everybody picks their own. Pinterest mom energy. I was very proud of myself for about four minutes.
Four minutes is exactly how long it takes six kids to turn a cereal bar into a crime scene. One box open and tipped sideways. Milk on the counter, milk on the floor, milk somehow on the wall. The toddler decided the floor was a perfectly good bowl and started eating Cheerios off the tiles like a tiny vacuum with opinions. The teenager ate straight out of the box, standing up, because apparently bowls are for other people. Somebody put marshmallows in the plain cereal and then complained the plain cereal had marshmallows in it.
Here is the thing, though. Once the sugar kicked in and everybody was actually sitting down, eating, and talking over each other about absolutely nothing, it was kind of beautiful. Loud, sticky, beautiful. This is the part nobody tells you about the chaos years. It is exhausting and it is also the whole point.
So I cleaned it up, survived the day, and when the house finally went quiet that night, I stepped out onto the porch for my little exhale. Just me, my mommy's magic flowers, and the sound of absolutely nobody needing a snack. And I sat there laughing to myself about the cereal on the wall, because that is the job. You survive the mess, you laugh at the mess, and then you do it all again next Saturday.
Mamas, what is the breakfast in your house that always ends in a disaster? Tell me I am not the only one mopping milk off a wall.
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