Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Let them eat (pan)cakes.
If I had a dollar for every time he'd asked me to stop at The Original Pancake House, I'd be rich. Usually he asks on the weekends when we're heading somewhere in a hurry. Which unfortunately means that the answer is usually "no" or at least "not now."
But not today. Because today was his birthday. Or, as he once told me five years ago, my mom-birthday, too (since it marks the day that I first got to be a mom.) After that, we started calling May 6 our "mommyversary" and "daddyversary"-- a term fully approved of by Isaiah. I love how inclusive he always is with celebrations. He was the one who dubbed our wedding anniversary as "the day our family was born" and who, just a few days later, decided that his birthday was a birthday for his parents, too.
So after getting Zachary onto his bus this morning and finishing up getting Isaiah ready, I headed out of the driveway with the birthday boy in tow. And he said, "I hope this weekend I really DO get to go to The Original Pancake House."
So you know what happened next? I made a U-turn on Lullwater and said, "You know what? You will get to go to The Original Pancake House for your birthday. Right now." His eyes widened like saucers. "Now? But . . . .I have school." "Yes, you do. And we will have our pancakes and then go straight there." And with that, I began driving directly to that little restaurant-- which happens to be in the exact OPPOSITE direction of Isaiah's school.
So my boy had his pancakes and ate them, too. On a school day even. And then I took him to school and signed him in late--and even admitted to the person at the front desk exactly what delayed his arrival.
"Pancakes. With chocolate syrup and a side of real pork bacon."
That's exactly what I said. Without apology.
And I'd do it again tomorrow if I could. Surely would.
Happy birthday to my beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy. You deserve the tall stack, whipped cream, chocolate syrup and much, much more.
Love you so.
Happy Isaiah Day. #YOLO
Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .