Often, I’m humbled by the way my kids watch me and mirror my behavior. I’m not just talking about admirable things, like buckling my seat belt, eating my vegetables, or crossing the street at the light. They see everything; my therapist says they’re like the paparazzi, sure to catch you at an awkward moment.
Yesterday morning I put an English muffin in the toaster, grabbed my cereal and milk, and took it to the adjacent room to eat. By the time I sat down, the muffin had popped up, so I returned to put it down again. It wasn’t quite ready, but it was close.
Back in the dining room, I joined Nina and Pinta and Santa Maria, who were all at the table. Breakfast is one of the few meals that we always eat together, and it’s fun. I forgot all about the English muffin, until, suddenly, I remembered it.
I jumped up, and dashed to the kitchen while somehow sighing, gasping, or otherwise contorting my face, and thereby communicating to Pinta that something had gone terribly awry.
She ran after me into the kitchen and said, “Who’s hurt? Who’s hurt?”
“Hurt?” I said, “No one’s hurt. I just didn’t want to burn the toast.”