This morning I looked at the nearly empty fridge and thought, “I’m soooo hungry and there is NOTHING to eat.”
I can have spaghetti for breakfast. Why? Because I am almost 30 and no one can tell me what is appropriate for breakfast!
Screw you cheerios! Screw you toast! Toast, you don’t even fill me up, you are just bread that’s been toasted which is why you are called toast—how original.
It’s not just breakfast I have autonomy over. I can watch whatever I want on Netflix, go to bed when I like, call in sick to work, and mismatch my socks.
As a new mom, I justify all the years I couldn’t have spaghetti or ice cream for breakfast by making my own child suffer as I once did. Little Gingerguppy has a bed time, is not allowed to watch anything ever, eats “appropriate” breakfast choices, and must get me cards on Mother’s Day.
It’s my way of paying it forward by ensuring that by the time the little guy is closing in on 30, he will appreciate spaghetti at breakfast as much as I do now.