After Kava comes breakfast. She’s into oatmeal lately. Which is funny because as she says, “I don’t eat stuff like that; it’s too good for you.”
I bring her a bowl of Quaker oats–made with love. She used to boil oats for me when I was little in a big old pot, topped off with rainbow jimmies for gusto. It’s a special moment for me. Sort of.
“Jenny. You could hang pictures with this stuff.”
“What if I make you another bowl that doesn’t taste like spackle?”
“That’d be good.”
“Jenny, this isn’t cooked.”
“It was in the microwave for 2 minutes just like the package says.”
She gives me a look that partially asks me if I think she is stupid and mostly tells me that she thinks I am stupid.
Round 3 . Still not cooked. Still awful. I feel like I’m in a bad episode of Goldilocks.
I suggest that maybe Patty should give it a try. Of course, her attempt is perfect on the first go.
(Until the next morning, when the 2nd bowl gets microwaved within an inch of its life and still isn’t cooked.)
I think the oatmeal is something she fixates on for stability. They say that when we lose our sense of control, we hang on to what we can. Even if its the perfect bowl of oatmeal.
Funny how I’ve been eating a lot more oatmeal lately. I think I’m hanging on to some things, too.