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Cheerios and Bacon

“What would you like for breakfast tomorrow?” I ask my four-and-a-half year old daughter.  Her breakfast choices tend to range within the standards, with cold cereal or pancakes (made from scratch not my forte) being top rated followed by bananas with yogurt or cereal, peanut butter and jelly, french toast and the occasional request for “super-deluxe cheesy eggs.”  Every so often I will receive a request for something the likes of grilled cheese or chicken noodle soup, whatever satisfies her.  I’ve learned to abandon my surprise daily hot breakfasts, including smiley face french toast with fruit and almonds; my efforts are still appreciated but only upon her request.

A decisive “Cheerios and bacon” is her reply.

Ah the steadfast bacon.  The single food my daughter would consume at every meal on a daily basis if we’d only let her.  A dietary staple in her mind.  Who can forget her “I need six pieces of bacon, not two” comment.  Or of course the ever famous “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I inquired many months ago.

“A pig farmer.  I’m going to make my own bacon!”  Ah the simplistic innocence yet infallible logic of youth.

For my daughter, Cheerios and bacon is completely rational.  It’s what she wants; it tastes good and it makes her happy.  She isn’t yet affected and burdened by the societal constraints of traditional  breakfast menu social norms.  She is free and has instinctively and decisively chosen her morning fuel.

Tomorrow I will get up before her to make the bacon.  She will undoubtedly pour her own cereal and milk (after dragging her chair across the kitchen to reach a bowl).  A glass of orange juice, which she always mixes with water as of late, and we will call it a well-balanced start to what I can only hope is a well-balanced day.  I can only imagine what she’ll want for snack after school…

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Work in Progress “Trash- A Dream”

This morning I dreamt I awoke from my nap to find someone had strewn our garbage across the front lawn placing it on display for the entire neighborhood.  I felt it made the house look tasteless and unkempt.  It was not until later that I realized these bits of garbage lying open and unprotected on the sodden earth amongst throngs of decaying sienna maple leaves were actually bits of my life.  Although it is February the climate was that of fall, chilly, damp and windy.  With each step I took, the ground released its water-logged grass and mud tying my trash to the land.

Forgetting the chilled air, and in nothing but a t-shirt and jeans, I frantically began piercing and collecting each immobile, rotten piece of  yesterday returning it to its rightful place in a thick, black trash bag.

My sisters called out from the front door to persuade me to put on a coat and forget the mess.  Returning these sodden, decaying memories to their rightful place was of utmost importance.  I hurried up the front path and ripped the coat from my sister’s hand.  “Watch the baby” I instructed as I returned to my task.

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Staring at Street Signs

Walking across 74th Street on Manhattan’s upper west side, heading for the subway I stopped, confused for a moment forgetting the order of the avenues (it had been quite a while since I had been up there- and my body and mind were fatigued after a rigorous dance class and many sleep deprived years). Staring up at the bent and crooked street signs amidst the usual foot traffic my desperation turned to realization. I knew generally where I wanted to go. Whether or not I was paused on the nexus of Amsterdam and 74th was irrelevant; standing still, staring up at the street signs was getting me no where. I put aside my annoyance at my fogginess and realized as long as I kept walking I’d reach my destination, maybe not in the way I thought, I might have to transfer at 59th street, or elsewhere, but I’d still get there.

Though my blog has been set up or several months now I’ve offered many excuses for delaying its progress. The thought of blogging enthralled and panicked me. I know I have a myriad of ideas yet such an open forum was frightening, boundless space in which to experiment and command full attention; I wondered if I was relevant. Rather than walking blindly I allowed myself to be consumed with day to day monotony ignoring the nagging pang begging me to write. I hope as time passes my blog becomes more polished but at present I view this space as my open work in progress.

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