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Rainbow pancakes are for Monday mornings.
They’re our soft landing into the week; completely un-skippable except for those Mondays that I wake up too late or too crabby or too behind to remember just how important soft landings are.
But today, Sunday, we want to share our landing with Daddy.
So the kids sit at the counter, the flour and the sugar and the salt piled high in front of their rosy cheeks.
They play with the tiny bottles of food coloring in their palms. The brightest of reds and blues and yellows peek through their tiny fingers.
Jason eyes us as I separate the batter into three ceramic bowls.
“I can’t believe how much trouble you’re going to just to make pancakes!” He laughs.
I squint into the comment.
I note the tip of his face and the lilt of his voice, the raise of his cheeks and the crinkle of his eyes, and I know that he means this in the sweet-loving-this is so very different than my breakfasts- way.
This routine that the four of us share and know and have memorized by the most intricate of heartstrings- is new to him.
And inside those breathings of my heart, I feel something. Something that makes me tip my own head and lift my own chin and wrinkle my own nose.
It reminds me of the first time that he asked me where a serving bowl was in our kitchen.
I suppose it’s how he would feel if I asked where the lawn mower gas is. Which for the record, I’ve never ever wondered about.
He and I are woven, braided, twisted. But there’s parts of our story that don’t curve around each other.
Some life lines run parallel. And that’s okay, I remind myself, that’s okay.
We smile with our eyes and our cheeks and our lips.
We pour strong coffee and serve artificial pancakes. This Sunday morning is off to a woven-braided-twisted start.