Your Freaking Breakfast is Ready

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It's sort of funny how things work in a marriage. This morning, after a night of celebrating the new year with close friends in a rather contained setting, I turned to my beautiful wife and said, "Why don't you make me breakfast?"

She laughed. "That's not my job," she said.

And she's right. It isn't. It's my job and always has been. If we are all home, it comes down to me getting breakfast ready, and I never thought about it much until this morning.

Of course, over the last several months, I have taken my short order cook duties to the extreme, bellowing out a name and then saying, "Your freaking breakfast is ready!"

Sam particularly enjoys this and follows up for me, yelling the same words up the stairs to Kathy or Matt, or Jake.

So I cook the breakfast and the kids know that if something breaks in this house it is Mom who gets the call.

Our call for that one is MAINTENANCE!

And maintenance comes running. Sometimes with her chest of tools, most of the time with just her knowledge of how things work.

And that's how the whole thing continues to roll around here.

So breakfast was served...Italian sausage, potatoes and eggs with toast. The dishes were brought to the sink and neither of us had to fight about who was going to rinse the plates and set them in the dishwasher.

That's my freaking job.

And it has all worked for so long. No need to change it up now, right?

Happy freaking New Year.

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