I was barely able to wake up today. Just one of those mornings when you feel completely robbed by the universe. I somehow managed to pour coffee, pull a waffle out of the fridge and put it in the toaster, and collapse into a chair at the table. The boys had requested fish sticks and broccoli for breakfast, so Jack was sitting across from me in front of a plate of fish-stick-particles and leftover ketchup, thoughtfully working on an ice-cream cone.
I try to focus my bleary eyes on my food. I clumsily cut my waffle with my fork, and the piece flies off my plate, off the table, and onto my bare foot. The syrup starts to ooze between my toes. Jack pulls the cone away from his mouth, cranes his neck to see where the waffle landed, smiles a world-weary smile, and explains,
"Daddy, gravity does crazy things to your food."
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