Pancakes and Bombs: Suburban Living 101

I believe I've told you a time or two that I do not like pancakes. Turn your head to the right and there, in the margin of this website, you will see "pancakes" on the list of things I hate.

They are gross, the devil's food I like to say. And maple syrup is even worse. Don't get me started. They are little sponge pads covered in poison.

While I do not like pancakes, I am aware that most people do, and I'm aware that "most people" are actually children and Marshall Eriksen.

So when little IK, age three, asked me to make him pancakes on Friday morning, of course I said no.

I really did. Mostly because he was supposed to be going to school within the half-hour. Then I tried to tell him pancakes are gross.

"Will you make me pancakes?"
No.
IK looks genuinely confused for a moment. Did she really just say no?
I think pancakes are gross. 
"Why?"
They are mooshy and taste yucky. You should eat an egg-in-the-hole instead.
"No, I want pancakes."
Well go ask your mama, I'm not making any.

I went to my room and was reading a bit when I realized I could still hear IK mucking about which meant he had not left for school and also meant that MK was probably unaware she was about to be late for work.

After a brief conference, it was decided that I would take IK to school and MK would go to work.

IK was a bit fussy about this change of events. Well, it looks like I have time to make you pancakes, I told him, immediately cutting off the fuss.

I survived making the pancakes. I didn't gag as I mixed the batter and it didn't make me gurggly in the tum-tum to pour the syrup on top (especially since I piled a bunch of strawberries on top).

not the pancakes I made, but I think pancakes all look and smell the same...like death

Immediately after the pancakes were eaten, we got a knock on the door. It was the cops. I kid you not. They were there to arrest me for making pancakes.

Or they were there to tell me there was a maybe/sort of/probably/we are not sure, but just in case, BOMB across the street.

"Get thee to the furthest corner of the house until we knock again," said the Victorian Portland Police Officer (or not).

Was it the pancakes? I wanted to ask. But instead I said, Oh my gosh! Okay! Thanks. 

Like a crazer, I grabbed IK and shouted for AM to meet us in the back bedroom. Cut to AM and I cooped up with a three-year-old and three dogs for more than an hour.


(Somewhere in there is an Anne Frank joke I won't make because that would be in poor taste.)

How neither of us lost our minds, I do not know.

I can only conclude that making pancakes could possibly piss someone off and force them to plant a bomb in front of the house. I completely understand, pancakes are very irritating. And though the suspected bomb turned out to be nothing, it served as a reminder that we are living in tumultuous times and sometimes the terrorists win.  The solution is to never, ever, ever make pancakes again.

Later that night, after picking him up from school, I asked IK what he wanted for dinner.

"Pancakes," he said.