Mother's Day Massacre

I woke up this morning to suspicious sounds from the kitchen. Giggling. Whispered ‘shh, Sophie!’ And what sounded like a small explosion.

Mother’s Day Massacre

I should have intervened. I should have saved my kitchen. Instead, I grabbed my coffee and watched my boys (yes, Sophie counts as one of my boys when she’s this destructive) attempt to make me Mother’s Day breakfast. The pancakes look like abstract art. There’s flour in places flour should never be. Sophie has somehow gotten batter on the ceiling.

But Marcus looked so proud presenting me with a plate of… well, let’s call them pancake-adjacent circles. And Sophie clapped and said ‘Mama!’ like she’d just created a masterpiece. So I ate every terrible, lumpy, somehow-both-burnt-and-raw bite and told them it was the best Mother’s Day breakfast ever.

It was. Not because of the food, obviously. Because of the love behind it. And because Sophie threw flour at the dog, which was genuinely hilarious.