My boy loves breakfast.  He can gobble up lumberjack quantities of pancakes, waffles, and french toast, along with bacon by the handful.  And he can do it fast, even faster than me.  He nibbles the rest of the day, but the boy sure does he eat in the morning.  It get’s particularly ugly on the weekend when there is a big stack of my from-scratch pancakes in the center of the table, and both of us are eyeing the carb-laden pile of yumminess.  (We don’t worry too much about mommy, she eats like a girl in the morning and a starving orphan at night.)  The boy takes one at a time to my four or five, as it should be given that I’m more than four times his size.  The problem is that I work my stack like a surgeon, cutting perfect bite-sized morsels, while he crams an entire pancake into his mouth, chewing intently as he picks out his next one.  We tell him to slow down, but breakfast is his time and he’s focused.  Eventually we get to the last pancake and by this point mommy has excused herself from the table to leave us to our caveman antics….

“Daddy, can I have that?”

“What?”  I know darn well what he wants.

“The pancake.”

“Devin, you’ve already had quite a few pancakes, aren’t you full?”  I want the last one.  I’m the big strong father, king of the kitchen table, eater of large amounts of food.

“No.  Can I have that now please?”

Damn. You can’t deprive a hungry kid of food this early in the morning, so I relent.  But not before one last psychological attempt at getting what I want.  I’m not proud of the following, but my pancakes are really good.

“I don’t know why I’m giving this to you, little guy.  Look at you, you’re getting so fat.”  He ponders this for a moment.

“Yeah, a little fat – just like you Daddy.”  It hit me slow, though I still didn’t see it coming.

Touche little dude, touche.

(For another fun pancake-themed post by a guy with two little mouths to feed, click here.)