Although the below post is a funny post, please pray for the author she just lost her toddler to SIDS (awaiting autopsy to confirm).
The info about her toddlers’ passing was not on her blog but on her fb fan page.
I cannot imagine her agony and the emotional tsunami her and her family are going through. Please pray for them.
They took WAY longer than I had ever spent making pancakes- or anything, really, ever before. When we were through with our efforts, we had procured several brown, lumpy, oddly shaped wads so thick and heavy, I was pretty sure they were going to skip being eaten to put on some flannel and grab a chainsaw to finish a hard day’s work at a lumber mill. I could have said about the same for the syrup/sauce/fruit goo.
This was a giant, leaping bound away from the light, fluffy pancakes of yore. My spiced oatmeal pancakes looked and smelled like Rudolph had used the serving tray as a personal port-a-potty. (Going with the unicorns-farting-rainbows theory, I’m assuming magical reindeer poo also magically smells of cinnamon and vanilla) My not-so- abandoned reservations were screaming in my face, SEEEEE? Dude. Yuckballs. Leave the cooking to the professionals, eh? Despite the encouraging eyes of my toddler companion, I kind of wanted to cry.
“To-men ‘eesh are MESHY pancakesh!” he said between never-empty-mouthfuls. “We MADE ’em. ‘ey’re GOOD!”
With that small insight, the burden of my expectations and ego were lifted. Aiden had never had an agenda aside from wanting to spend time with me- and wanting a hot breakfast. He had enjoyed every minute of the feel of the flour mixture, the satisfaction of successfully cracking the eggs, the stickiness of the dough, the participation and the company. When it was through, he loved the outcome with no reservations and simply called them as he saw, “Messy Pancakes”… and they were the best pancakes I’ve ever tried.