"Mama," he called sleepily. "Mama, you hafta be nice to me. You hafta be nice to me and let me come downstairs."
"Well, that's true I guess," I told him as I rounded the corner of our creaky stairs, unlatched the gate, and scooped him up. He grinned.
I glanced through our bedroom door at Sweet Husband--still zonked out--and at the clock. Sweet Husband almost always takes care of the morning parenting shift because he goes to work later, but it was still early enough that I figured the Kid and I could handle breakfast together.
As Sweet Husband does, I perched the Kid on the counter while I made his unvarying weekday breakfast--a slice of toast, a medium fried egg, and a sliced banana. I'm not the best egg cook in the world, but I am getting better. Since it was a nice day, I set the Kid up outside while I made coffee and granola for myself.
I joined the Kid, and was able to finish up the thought I had been writing as we discussed the very important happenings at pre-school this week. By the time his dada made it downstairs, we had managed a very nice little breakfast date.