“Daddy, I want breakfast!”

Inwardly I wince. Through my eyelids I see that morning is here, if barely. I struggle through the tatters of my dreams. It’s time to move, sit up, stagger out of bed. The cool morning air robs the warmth of the blanket from my bare chest as I make my way to the kitchen.

Where did I leave the bowls? Right. I washed them before bed, just six hours ago. I grab one from the drying rack, fill it with his favorite cereal. Slosh in some milk, and grab a spoon. Next? Brain sputters, warming up. Oh, a banana too. Got it, opened it. Bring to table.

Hmm. Bed calls. He’s old enough to eat on his own. I can return to slumber. But no. I have a meeting in a few hours.

Wait, where is he. “Breakfast!” I croak out, throat dry after a hot night. I blink away the rime. Not in the living room, playing with toys. Where?

Ah, there. In the bedroom, threatening to wake my spouse. I pull him out and shut the door. He sees the food and remembers his hunger.

Another day begins, as they all do.