Took Kantar to The ‘Bux for breakfast. He’s fantastic to take places because a) his mere presence makes people smile and b) once they see him and all his cuteness, nobody wants to talk to me, which is a ginormous relief.
We waited our turn in a pretty long but quick-moving line, holding hands and pontificating about what kind of delicious pastry we were going to enjoy together. It was pretty late in the morning when we got there, so a lot of the breakfast-y items were already gone by the time we arrived. This is hard to reconcile when you’re a hungry preschooler with your heart set on a chocolate chip muffin.
When we got to the head of the line, this is how it went down with Wendi, our hipster-type-service-person
K: Chokkit chip muffin peas.
Wendi: I’m sorry, sweetie, we’re all out of chocolate chip muffins this morning. We have a cranberry-ginger scone, or a bagel, would you like those?
K: No dank you. I want chokkit chip muffin peas.
Me: Honey, they are all out. Let’s look in this window and pick something else.
K: No dank you. (louder and less cute)
Wendi: Look, sweetie, there’s an apple fritter, do you like apples?
K: (brightening) Yes, I like green apples.
Wendi: (pointing to the fritter in the case, trying to be patient while the line behind us grows longer) Here’s the apple fritter, do you want this?
Me: Yes, we’ll take the fritter please.
K: EEEEWWWW!!! THAT LOOKS LIKE BRAAAAIINNNNSS!!! (laughs maniacally)
Me: (awkward smile) Honey, stop, that’s an apple donut called a fritter. They’re super yummy.
K: THAT’S NOT APPLES! IT’S BRAINS! DON’T MAKE ME EAT BRAINS, MOMMY!!
He’s squealing with laughter now, his red face squinched with delight as tears stream down his face. He is leaning with his back against the glass case, taking great delight in the gloriously odd thought that his mother has taken him out for breakfast and wants to feed him brains.
While I am baffled by what appears to be some kind of mental crackup at a very young age – I’ll admit to being more than a little impressed with his comprehension of human anatomy (note to self – find out which of his preschool teachers is teaching zombie folklore).
At this point, the line behind us has taken a collective five paces backward. One woman seems to be trying to give me what little dignity I have left by digging in her purse and pretending not to hear or see him.
My child is collapsed in a pile of giggles and muttering “brain breakfast” over and over, wiping his little eyes with the back of his chubby hand. I look back to Wendi, who has plated the giant, glazed brain donut and slides it across the counter to me along with a glare that says her patience with our pastry review is as thin as her hemp necklace.
Wendi: That’ll be $6.47 please.
And that’s why I make my own damn muffins.