Dear breakfast bowl,
I’m so sorry. You’re a one-of-a-kind, and now look what I’ve done.
Together, we sat through all 95 breakfasts since I moved here; we didn’t miss a single one. You’re my ‘first thing’ every morning. I long for you when I’m hungry, and I scold you when you’re soooo full and I don’t think I can do it.
Most days, you just sit there on my tabletop, and I can almost hear you:
“I don’t care how you do it, but you’re not going anywhere before you ate all of this”
On cheerful days, you put on a big smile and go:
“You can do this, I know you can!”
Every now and then, on tired days, you go:
“It’s OK to cry, I know it’s hard; take your time, we’ll get there eventually”
Once or twice since the move, on the bad days, you went:
“No breakfast for you today, missy; you’re fat enough as you are”
On those days, I’m so glad you’re just a breakfast bowl! Because in the end, it’s me doing the decision-making; not you. And I’m not playing those anorexic games with you anymore.
I’ll go buy special glue and mend you. What else can I do? Our love is tough.