Memories

Warm moist breath floats across my cheek. The smell of sugar hits my senses, forcing my weary eyelids to rise slowly. Two wide, mischievous brown eyes stare down at me from four inches above my face.

"Good. You're awake," my youngest son pronounces in a voice at least ten decibels louder than I would ever care to hear this early in the morning.
It doesn't help that his mouth is just inches from my ear.

"Andrew," I mutter thickly, "I smell sugar. Have you been in the sugar?"

"Nope, I made you a surprise."

The words "I made" cause my heart to beat a bit faster. I'm just waking, and Andrew had no supervision while he "made" whatever it is he made. I assess the possibilities. Did it involve a glue gun? paint? A chainsaw?

"Oops!" Andrew says. Two soft, round orbs bounce off my head and onto the pillow. "I'm spilling your surprise."

I turn my head and stare at the two marshmallows on my bed. "You made me something with marshmallows?"

"Aren't you exited?" He lowers the plate I hadn't noticed him holding high above my head. It's big, heavy and stoneware--and I am suddenly thankful to be hit by marshmallows and not the plate itself.

"It's breakfast in bed!" He plops the plate onto my unprepared stomach, spilling another marshmallow.

I sit up slowly and survey the feast. "Oh, Andrew you shouldn't have!" I mean it more than he could ever know. There they are--all his favorites, sitting right on my plate.

A handful of chocolate chips next to a handful of jellybeans. Two tootsie rolls. A graham cracker with a dollop of whipped cream (artfully done, I must add). Six sugar cubes, and of course, the marshmallows.

"Oops! I forgot your coffee! I'll be right back." He scampers out of the room, leaving me to ponder his gift.

The first realization I have is that we need a lock for the baking cupboard. The second--and more sobering--thought is that I have to eat some of this stuff or Andrew will be disappointed. I weigh my options as I hear footsteps returning. I quickly scoop up the jellybeans and deposit them in my pillowcase.

"Here you go!" He sets a mug on my nightstand and watches proudly as I pick it up.

Ahh...morning coffee, I think naively. Maybe I can get through this. And then I take the first sip. Ahh...yesterday's coffee, I correct, shuddering from the impact of ice cold liquid slithering down my throat. Of course, it's from yesterday. What had I been thinking? Andrew doesn't know how to make coffee yet. I make a mental note to teach him how, right after . . . breakfast.

He rounds the bed and hops onto the other side. The waterbed does a roll, and I precariously balance the coffee and the heavy plate. He's going to watch me take every last sip and nibble.

I have to find a way to get him out of the room. "Uh, aren't you going to have some?" I ask hopefully.

"Already ate. It's good, isn't it?"

"Oh, . . . yes, Andrew. But you know, it's really the thought that counts, don't you think?"

"What's that mean?"

"It means that . . . well, the best part of this breakfast is the fact that you took the time to make it, and . . . it's not the eating part that's so special, it's the . . . uh . . .the . . ."

"Hey, what's this?" A few renegade jellybeans roll out of the pillowcase.

"How'd those get there? I ask lamely. "Must have slipped off my plate somehow."

"I'll get 'em for you, Mom."

And he does. Every last one. As he settles in to enjoy my predicament, I begin the task. I take a bite. I "ooh" and "ahh." I fight the revulsion. And try hard not to laugh at him.

I am touched at this thoughtfulness, but I am also surprised. Hasn't my darling son been watching me every morning of his four years? Doesn't he know me better than this? Mornings for me consist of coffee, and maybe more coffee, but almost never food, well maybe some home made cookies, upon occasion.

Well, I know I have a full day ahead. First off, I have to teach Andrew how to make coffee. I need to go to the post office, and then shopping. I have recycling to drop off. I want to get at least a bit of exercise in there somewhere. Then my other son will be out of school. Oh, and a quiet time.

Hmmm . . . I review my list and all the "I needs" and "I want" pop out at me. My quiet time nearly suffocated under all the other "have to's."

I began to argue, these aren't frivolous things. It's good that Andrew learns new skills, and . . . and the bills need to get to the post office, and the house does need to be looked after . . . and . . . I need to recycle to help save the planet…right?

"Hey, Mom--how come you're not eating?"

I had nearly forgotten my little breakfast warden. "You know, honey, I'm getting so full. How 'bout if we save some of this till later?" He, he.

"Yeah, okay." He scoops up my plate. "Want the rest of your coffee?"

"No, no!" I respond a bit too forcefully. "You can take that, too."

He starts for the door. "Are you glad I made you breakfast in bed, Mom?"

"Oh Andrew, I'm gladder than you could know."

"Well, I was going to make you new coffee, but I didn't know how."

"That's okay, Andrew, 'cause you know--it's really the thought that counts. But I was thinking, maybe we can do something about that. How about if later today I teach you how to use the coffee maker?"

"Yeah!" He's excited. "But let's do it right now!"

"Later, honey. I promise."


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This happened eleven years ago. The memory is still there, as if it just happened yesterday. I can hardly believe how much my little boy has grown, he turns 15 this Saturday. In a way I wish maybe I should have never taught him how to make that coffee. Andrew and his older brother now drink it more often than I do.