Day of mother worship.
Mother. That would be ME.
You know, that chick that does your washing and feeds you and drives you around and shit? Yeah, well she wants a freaking day off. And that day is gunna be Sunday.
And this is the way it is goin’ down.
Sunday morning, I ain’t getting up till I am READY to get the fuck up.
I don’t care if Boo has painted the walls in his own excrement or has eaten half a jar of peanut butter with a twig he found in the garden, or if you are hungry or your favourite *insert some article of clothing that from the piles and piles on your floordrobe you have decided is essential to your very exsistence to wear today here* is missing or has a stain or your sister/father/brother/bunny is wearing, DO NOT wake me.
And Moo and Too? You are taller than me. So this burnt toast, soggy eggs shit doesn’t wash with me anymore. I ain’t choking down a crappy breakfast and watery freaking coffee any more. I want good stuff. Cooked properly.
I am thinking poached eggs, yolk still a little runny on an English muffin with wilted baby spinach and mushrooms, juice, latte and chocolate dipped strawberries.
Brought to me HOT when I deem it acceptable. And not in bed. I hate eating in bed. I have always hated eating in bed and I especially hate eating soggy eggs and burnt toast in bed with 3 bouncing children.