Over the years I heard complaints from the older kids in the family about the youngest one. “He ate my breakfast.”
Yes, I’d played Betty Crocker a few times. I’d filled dishes strewn in front of each chair. No need to properly set the table in my house. Food disappeared before anyone noticed if napkins matched the spray of flowers. (j/k about the flowers — bruised rose petals dragged in by dirty hands floating in cereal bowls at best.) And yes, while I aroused the others out of their beds to enjoy the morning feast, a young toddler had climbed onto the table.
By the time the others stood within visual distance of the table, they’d sensed something awry. Cheezy sat in the middle of the breakfast table, licking his lips as he swallowed scrambled egg and bacon from the last plate.
We tried out new foods on him all the time. Admittedly the others tested anything new on Cheezy. Even garden variety escargot. He’d waddled into the house from the backyard clad in a diaper and chewing. “Show Mommy what’s in your mouth?” I’d winced. A snail, shell and all, peered over his tongue, waving tentacles, grateful to see daylight.
But he didn’t complain when as the youngest he had to settle for “backburner” cereal — one-third Cherrios, one-third Lucky Charms (minus the lucky) and one-third pork and beans.
His older brother said things like, “He played with my Star Wars and lost Luke Skywalker’s light saber.” May the force be with all of us.
Cheezy would be beaten within an inch of his life by one of the others, then a few minutes later share his Ninja Turtle with his attacker. Hence the cycle — eat someone’s snack, get beat up, forgive, repent, and do it again.
He once expected to break the cycle, not by eating less, but by being stronger. When he stomped into the house, I’d asked what he was doing. “Putting on my Superman cape so I can beat up Hot Wheelz.”
As a single mom, I did everything possible to save money, passing on regular oil changes and milk from living cows. We drank powdered milk. Everyone hated when Cheezy mixed the milk. It had the consistency of mud.
And maybe he whined too much for the comfort of the older ones. But it was mostly because he wanted to be older like them, especially to his sister closest in age.
“I wanna do what the big kids do,” he’d sniffled.
“CoCo was once little just like you,” I’d said trying to comfort him. His jaw had dropped in disbelief, “CoCo used to be a boy?”
But I remember this youngest child differently. I’d come home from the hospital with number four as a single mom with no time to wallow. Cheezy’s warm body, cuddled against my chest, saved me from staying too long at my pity Penny party. And as he grew, his awkward bubbly bouncy Tigger ways kept a smile on my face.
Now you’re old enough to do whatever you please. Happy birthday, Son.
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What an adorable picture! That is how I remember him too!
-Shannon
I love your blog, more often than not I am falling off my chair laughing hysterically. However, this one was my all-time favorite. This one was especially touching in many ways, and I experienced the full gamut of all emotions in just one little article. I went from feeling tenderness, to tears, to hysterical laughter and joy. As a single mom, I could more than relate. Love it, please keep it coming!!