We're eating brinner. Or rather, I am. The kids run amok.
Jim is in the woods somewhere. Up a tree with bow and arrows.
Cinnamon pear pancakes, maple syrup and just-whipped cream are all I've managed tonight, but I suppose that one can do worse than this comfort food on an October evening.
You are not excused. Come back to the table, please. Finish your pancakes.
Rinse. Repeat.
Mom, you're being bossy, Dylan informs me, her manner matter of fact.
I am the boss, I remind her.
No, you're not. Dad's the boss.
I pick my jaw up off the sticky table. We're both the boss.
Ohh. She pauses, the information washing over her face like rain. I didn't know that.
A rare moment of clarity, it was. A glimpse into the universe, right there at the brinner table.
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