The morning battle I did not expect.
We have a morning family tradition that falls on snow days, CBS Sunday Morning Sunday’s and other mornings when we know we’ll be together and I remember to buy them.
We use the can kind, which I regret each time I attempt to open them. I love the can, seeing it in the fridge makes me feel proud of my motherhood, that I am prepared. The family will awake to the aroma of love and togetherness. We eat them on beautiful light green summer paisley plates that I love, purchased for a girls day on the lake.
I head out to the kitchen, look for signs up in my son’s room for rustling. He has feet that hang off the edge of his bed in sight as I enter the kitchen. I want to see how much time I have. I decide to get the oven going, get the glazed pottery round dish ready with cooking spray. A stoneware piece of divorce property. I am feeling very accomplished as I open the shades to view the lake this morning. It’s a little chilly so I get the furnace on.
I grab a Slimfast and go to work. Step one, peel the outside layer without ripping the directions (yes I still need the directions). Step two, stare at the can and prepare for battle. Step three, go at it pushing along the seam. This one today is a fighter as it is not the name brand. I pull out a knife. I went at it now making it ooze, that can’t be good. It takes several punctures and finally I get it to pop. My hands hurt and I am chugging my protein drink for reinforcement.
I can do this. I have done it a million times. I am ready to give up and I think of my son and keep going. Finally, the tube of dough is free. Step four, try to pull them apart while they proceed to fall to pieces and stick cinnamon to my hands as chunks are now falling to the kitchen floor. “Stayed focused.” I tell myself, “keep going they will not win.” Finally in the stoneware, in the oven, timer set.
My son wakes up with four minutes left of bake time. I have landed the triple sow cow.
He says “It’s hot in here” and I say “Good morning I made cinnamon rolls”. He says, “Can I have the last of the milk” To drink,” I say? “No, for cereal,” he says. I grab a bowl, dishwasher clean, pour the last of the milk into the last of the cereal and bring it to him.
Does he not understand my struggle? I go back to writing and the timer goes off on the oven. I take them out, put them on the beautiful light green summer paisley plates , glaze them with icing and bring him two. Back to writing in my office.
I hear “Mom these are good,” as I take my first bite, I say “yah I had to battle the can they are a knockoff brand.” “They’re good,” he says. “Right, they have more cinnamon than the other ones. They came out good; then it was worth the struggle,” I say.
“Do you want another round,” I ask as I pick up his plate. He says, “yes.” my soul fills up with giggles and the battle with the can fades out of my memory once again. The idea that in our family a can of rolls, a stone dish and pretty plates bring such heartfelt memories is one of my proudest accomplishments. Everyone in our home, when they see the can, gets excited. They forget their busy schedules knowing it’s going to be a good day, in our lives, when it starts with warm iced cinnamon rolls.