Keep Calm

I'd been out of bed for less than ten minutes today, and already I was wanting to throw in the towel. Blake's alarm went off for work and I got out of bed shortly after because I knew he was dealing with a breakfast (and lunch...) dilemma:  no milk, no eggs, no bread.

Yeah. It's been one of those weeks. (Or I suppose two of those weeks in a row?...)

I got up and sure enough, he was sitting ready for work by the fire, not pursuing any sort of means for sustaining himself through a morning and afternoon shift of manual labor.

Annie: "Good morning. How do pancakes sound for breakfast?" Thank you, that would be great. I was just thinking about what I might do.

So I went into the kitchen and proceeded to mix up the Krusteaz and plug in the griddle. Mix + water. Easy peezy, lemon squeezy. I had what I considered six fairly decent pancakes on the griddle, but when it came time to flip, I discovered it was a little past the time to flip. Fairly decent pancakes just became lame-sauce crappy-wife pancakes. Not total burned, but you know when the underside sometimes just cooks too fast on the first batch and you end up with an overdone ugly top and an almost done middle? Grr.

If any of you know how this is to be avoided and how to make nearly perfect pancakes nearly every time, please post in the comments. No seriously. PLEASE.

I even had it set on the very perfect temperature. (Discovered by Blake, of course.)

Blake is generally the breakfast master in our house. His scrambled eggs: to die for. His mom even has him do the eggs at home. His any-other-kind-of-egg: equally perfect. Pancakes: perfect. *insert Yul Brynner voice* Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Naturally, that's why I had the griddle on the perfect temperature--because the last time Blake made pancakes, they were perfect, and I was sure to ask him what the griddle was on so I would be able to avoid the sort of mishaps exhibited this morning. Perhaps the stars were perfectly aligned when Blake made his pancakes?...

So yes. After flipping the pancakes, I'd just about had it. Blake sensed this, did a bit of probing once we sat down to eat, and I blurted out, "I'm sick of sucking at breakfast!" (Once I cool down, I'll probably be able to look back on that moment and perceive that Blake had to suppress a laugh.)

Imagine Blake's kind, reassuring, calm-down-overreacting-pregnant-wife tone: "You don't suck at breakfast."

"That's more or less where we're at. I always make the weird pancakes, the weird eggs, and I somehow can't even manage to keep milk in the fridge so you can have cold OR hot cereal. OR bread in the pantry so you can make a sandwich."

"Sandwiches aren't for breakfast."

"It's in the same general category and another item on the list of wife deficiencies!" (Whoa there, Annie. Easy on the self-love, girlfriend!)

The rest of the conversation is unimportant. As is the first part, really. But here I am, writing it anyway to document how little things can just set you off when you're pregnant. (Uh... or female? Or your name is Annie?) Were the pancakes fine? Yeah. Did Blake leave with some lunch? Yeah. (Homemade rolls that I made yesterday, chips, granola bar, and an orange. Not a bad lunch.) Is today still a good day? Yeah. Am I fine? Yeah.

Word to the wise or the freaking out:

Don't let the lame-sauce pancakes of your day ruffle your feathers too much.

It's all going to be fine. I promise.

P.S. One more part of the conversation:

Once we were about done with our food and I was less of a hot-head...

Sheepish voice: "I'm sorry that I said 'suck' in our house." (I hate that word. That was always a bad word growing up, and never one that I wanted to say because it always just felt so crass.) "...You can spank me later if you want."

Somehow I don't think Blake would mind taking me up on that offer. Just a hunch, though.