Death of a Pancake

Did I mention that I am a full-time babysitter during the summer months? It is unpaid work as I want to help my daughter save expenses and I am in a fortunate position that my husband's salary is adequate and he doesn't squawk too much about my not bringing in a larger paycheck. I also work hours at a nursing home in the Alzheimer's unit and my time there will increase when school resumes. I continue to sit two-and-a-half year old Cameron three days weekly throughout the school calendar. Did I mention that it is unpaid work? Oh no, no, no. The hours are filled with the ringing laughter and the innocent hi jinks of my adorable charges and I am infinitely blessed with their precious companionship and beguiling stories .

And that would be a load of fossilized excrement and then some. This is work. Mother may be the name of God on the lips of children, but what about grandmother? Well, I'm not sure but maybe it will come to me at a later date. The roles sometimes blur.

Adam and I had breakfast at the IHOP this morning. He ordered a Funny Face pancake and it was chocolate and the size of a dinner plate with maraschino cherries for eyes, whipping cream facial features and chocolate chips sprinkled all over. And then he proceeded to put syrup on it pretending he was pouring hot coffee on some poor schmuck's face. He made growling and moaning sounds as the pancake came to life in his own mind and he snarled, "your blood is the same color as your eyes (yes, the cherries.)"

He took a picture of his half- eaten breakfast when he went to take a "water whiz" as he wanted to make sure I would not nibble on any of it. Fat chance on that one. He also had me take a picture when he first got the thing and then when the plate was empty. His brother had done the same thing with a trout he had caught and the second shot showed just a skeleton of fish bones. He then proceeded to describe how the fish lungs and heart were still present when Ethan ate the fish and then the yolk of my eggs just wasn't appetizing at that point.

On the way home his water bottle became a ray gun, machine gun and lastly, a gun that sprayed gasoline and then set its victim on fire. There were no pedestrians standing or riding at the end of our trip.

Here is a scenario. Two young boys and two young girls are playing with blocks. The girls are building a house and the boys are doing the same thing. Once the structures are complete the girls begin to decorate and inhabit the place with people, imaginary or not. The boys? That house of blocks is history. It is blown up, pelted with giant hailstones, zapped by an alien ship or stomped flat by a giant tyrannosaurus rex. Testosterone is a fearsome thing.

So what is the name of grandmother on the lips of children? I'm open to suggestions on that one.