Routine Morning

Big full tears well up in her brown eyes. The lip is out and she says all snotty, "I don’t want my supplement."

I’m rushing around the kitchen, trying to get the rest of her morning in order. Thoughts of a DAN! conference a couple of years ago run through my mind. Riley’s doctor was speaking and she admitted to routinely asking mothers to do what she herself could not accomplish on a given day.

Thank you, Dr. Mumper. I appreciate the acknowledgment.

Riley's supplements require a lot of smashing tablets, opening capsules, drops under the tongue, sprays in the mouth. All day long it's one thing after another. This is what I am doing with my nursing degree.

It's her magnesium she's balking at today. It's the one thing I can’t let her skip. It keeps the constipation at bay and I can’t let her go through what will inevitably happen tomorrow if she misses it.

"Riley, you need to take your magnesium." I snap.


"Wahhhhh!!!!!!!!!"

I stop what I’m doing.

"Do you want me to put more honey in it?"

She stops crying long enough to nod.

Seth sits at the table, not touching his breakfast, a glint of defiance in his eye. He’s not going to eat until she does and she’s not allowed to eat until she finishes her supplements. Unspoken solidarity between them.

I squirt a blob of honey onto the peanut butter and mix it up on a plate with her spoon. She takes a tiny bite and starts screaming again.

"It’s crunch-EEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"

Dammit Todd. If you can’t crush the tablets into a fine powder, don’t bother doing it at all.

He left for work an hour ago, preparing some of her supplements beforehand to help me get through the morning rush.

Walking to the sink I place my hands on the counter, grounding myself.

Breathe.

She can’t help it. It’s a texture thing. It isn’t her fault.

Breathe.

He was trying to help.

Breathe.

I scoop her peanut butter blob back into the porcelain mortar and with the pecil, I work my frustrations out on the poor unsuspecting magnesium.

Damn you with your crunchy little bits. Damn you all to hell!

Scraping up the now almost liquid concoction, I give the spoon back to Riley. She takes a tiny, tentative bite.

"Okay?" I ask.

She nods, and starts licking it off the spoon.

Sitting down at the table I say, "I’m sorry I got angry."

Between licks she says,

"I’m sorry I freaked out."

I smile because she said, "freaked out."

Seth picks up his banana and starts to eat.