Cream of Wheat!

On Sunday mornings when I was a little girl my mother would wake my siblings and me up by yelling each of our names, in birth order, up the stairs until she got a response from each child to indicate that she or he was at least awake enough to grunt at her. But if, instead of grunting, any child was awake enough to immediately yell back "Cream of Wheat!" then Mom would make that for breakfast instead of the usual cold cereal. The memory of my mother, hair and makeup in various states of done for church and still wearing her big furry red robe while cooking the beloved cream of wheat will always be a fond memory for me. It's just the kind of warm and fuzzy memory I hope my children will one day have from their childhoods.

Perhaps it's not surprising then for me to say that to this day I love Cream of Wheat. I'd go so far as to rank it among my top five comfort foods. I could go on for some time about the intricacies of making the perfect bowl of Cream of Wheat, but I do realize at least on some level that such a dissertation would be boring to most people so I'll limit it to this- timing is crucial! It must be monitored continuously while cooking and then eaten promptly or you’ll end up with an inedible pile of goo. (I suspect that improper preparation is one of the main reasons why many people claim not to like Cream of Wheat. That and the fact that apparently most don’t put butter in it. Fools! Don’t you know that everything is better with butter!?!?)

The timing issue is why, even though I craved it all day, I waited until Matt got home and took Grant upstairs for a bath before making myself a bowl. This was, after all, my first day as a stay at home mom- I did not have Grant's schedule down well enough to test it with something as important as Cream of Wheat!

After hours of waiting the time had finally come. I had just sat down with my coveted bowl of enriched farina- tinged ever so slightly yellow from the butter, glistening from the sugaroverthetopanddon’tstir (which, for those of you who were not raised by my mother is exactly what it sounds like- sugar that you sprinkle over the top but don’t stir into the cereal. And, yes, I’m quite sure it’s one word).

That’s when something happened to make me realize that I am no longer the little girl eagerly waiting to yell out “Cream of Wheat!!” when my name is called. No. I am now in the position of the woman who hasn’t had a chance to get dressed for church yet, but has to stop and stand over a hot stove making cereal because a daughter I loved asked for it.

That’s when Matt yelled from the bathroom upstairs “Honey! Help! Grant just pooped in the tub!!”

Yep, I’m a mom.

(And, yes, I am aware of just how much my son will hate stories like this when he's older, but I gave up my bowl of cream of wheat to clean his poop out of the tub- I'll tell any story I like!)