breakfast for your head.*

Of all the sacrifices I’ve had to make as a newly-married person, I think the biggest might be breakfast.

The first meal of the day was standard in the Butterworth house growing up. In fact, it was above standard. While other Americans were stuffing their kids’ faces with Pop-tarts and Lucky Charms in a cup, my dad was scrambling eggs. Assembling sausage biscuits. Generally behaving like Ward Cleaver. (Or was it June?)

The four of us prayed together, then ate together. Discussed our upcoming days together.

Or, at least, Dad and I discussed. Mom and Chet didn’t always have their eyes open. They were a little slower to enjoy the breakfast ritual. But Dad and I… we were early-bird-gets-the-worm types.

When I moved back home post-college, I discovered Mom and Chet no longer took part in breakfast time. At least, not like we all used to. So Dad and I began a new tradition. Every morning, he would wake me up, and we would eat breakfast together. Read the paper. Maybe not too much talking, but then… Dad and I aren’t really the big talkers in the family. Our mornings were quiet, but pleasant. After we finished, we’d both go off to work to bring home the bacon.

Then came marriage. Now don’t get me wrong. I like a good Special K bar as much as the next person. And Jordan brings me some breakfast item each morning as I’m getting ready. He’s good like that. But it’s just not the same.

No newspaper.

No sausage biscuit.

No Dad.

But in my family, we adjust. We don’t let change defeat us.

So, on occasion, my dad and I meet for breakfast.

I love it.

We talk about grown-up things. Like work. And news. Sports. Good restaurants. Or the fact that my dad doesn’t like raw green peppers. (I know. It’s mind blowing.)

Sometimes, as we sit and chat, I’ll get déjà vu.

Because about ten years ago, Dad would take me out to breakfast for dad-daughter dates. It’s just what we did.

And I liked it back then too.

It’s nice, isn’t it? When old and new collide. When adulthood and childhood decide to intermingle for a little while.

I’m glad it happens at breakfast.

*Another family ritual in which breakfast was eaten as dinner. We Butterworths like our breakfasts.