Eucharist
Lucy, watching with a curiosity bordering on frenzy as I slowly fry her a single egg in the French style (which is to say drowning in butter); her wary gaze at the yolk lasting a full minute before slamming her face into it, emerging with a giggle, a mouth full of egg, and a nose whose yellow stain transfers quickly to the entire rest of her person —
Lucy, barely awake at 5am, overtired and ravenous, housing an entire peanut butter and jelly sandwich with brioche and Nick's serviceberry jam, and upon doing so she stumbles over to the couch and faceplants into a pillow and goes back to sleep for another hour —
Lucy, having her truly onomatopoeiac slurp of spaghetti at Mario the Baker’s — Mario the Baker’s, the same place, ten feet away from where my grandmother fed me my first garlic roll and my grandfather taught me how to make “special tea” by pouring sugar packets and lemon into iced tea — and then upon my brother’s encouragement first turns the noodle into a lasso and then a sort of banjo string, alternating with each noodle between feast and plaything —
Lucy, perched happily on my shoulders (Ratatouille-ing my hair in lieu of a more convenient handlebar) for the entire walk to En Su Boca, the not-great-but-good-enough Mexican joint where she’ll have two bites of her quesadilla but happily pick away the steak from my burrito and, so tired from the trip she rests her chin on my head and slowly lets her eyes grow narrower and narrower —
What is parenthood? It is many things, but today I am trying to tell you that parenthood is breakfast never being boring again. Every meal becomes a eucharist; every egg you fry is a blessing, even the ones that end up cold and untouched (and finally, mercifully, eaten by Telly) in favor of a handful of blueberries.