Today it is my sweet husband's birthday. I think the world of him and wish him many healthy years, and a fulfilled life, and the art and ability to create happiness out of the ordinary day. Even more so, out of the extra ordinary day, like today. He is the best father that Emma could have ever wanted, and I am sure if she knew what a birthday is, she would be chiming in with some wishes as well.
You know what makes a great breakfast? A home made baguette slice (doesn't have to be home made, but around here home made is the best you're going to get, and my latest creations are improving dramatically), with apricot or peach jam, and topped with whipping cream. Mmmmm. Dunked in coffee with hot milk. Heaven.
The only person who does not think so is Emma. She looks at the jam, takes one lick of the whipping cream, and pulls her nose up. If given the opportunity, she tears the breakfast offering apart with two fingers, like it were a dead insect. I swear, this child of mine should be filmed and distributed as diet helper. You give her great things, like dates, and candy, and she often spits them out and is not interested. Banana bread, I mean c'mon, who doesn't like banana bread with dates and walnuts? apparently Emma. When hungry, she might eat it, but if she is not hungry, you could give her the world on a stick and she would not touch it. Except to trample on it, that is.
Why can't I be more like her? I think I am becoming a bit more like her: unembarrassed to spit out whatever does not taste like I really need or want. Not always though, and not perfectly. Last night, I asked MrH what he would like for desert on his birthday, and he said ice cream. So I made the liquid for putting in the ice cream maker but it turned out too sweet. So I drank about a cup of it (can't waste it) and replaced the missing cup with cream. Turned out great. I was a bit sick on the other hand....