Weekend Wanderer: Breakfast in Bed? No Thanks!

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I’d just like to register a concern about Mother’s Day.

Breakfast in bed.

Mother’s Day and breakfast in bed are shipped more than Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt. And while I will forever hope Jen and Brad realize they were meant to be, I never want to see a Mother’s Day that serves me scrambled eggs between the sheets.

Which sounds like a naughty euphemism. It’s not, but for what it’s worth there is a naughty euphemism for breakfast in bed.

I’m not talking about that meaning though. Actual breakfast in bed is dirty enough.

Don’t get me wrong. Breakfast food is nirvana. What other meal in your day is capable of combining savory and sweet, caffeine and alcohol?

None. Breakfast is king.

But breakfast in bed? There is no way chocolate chip scones – beautiful and buttery though they may be – aren’t going to generate a few crumbs in your comforter. Now you have to gather up that comforter and wash it.

You do realize, though, that you’ll probably drop some crumbs on the floor. Sure, you’ll vacuum or sweep or whatever. But what if you miss one? What if that crumb sticks to your foot when you climb into bed Sunday night?

You’re right back where you started. Crumbs. In your bed.

That’s catastrophic.

My husband understands my repulsion for breakfast in bed, but I don’t think he really knows why I’m so repulsed.

Even if I explained my objections, he wouldn’t understand. He recently told me having our kids shower after they clean their toilets is excessive. They’re covered if they just wash their hands.

Which is ridiculous. Sometimes when I clean the toilets, my upper arm or torso comes in contact with the bowl. Toilet bowl/ torso contact mandates a shower. Because the only thing worse than a crumb stuck to your foot when you go to bed on Mother’s Day is E. coli on your bicep when you do, well, anything.

Obviously, my husband will never empathize with my fear of stowaway crumbs. Or stowaway E. coli.

Where does this leave my family? What can they do if they can’t surprise me with breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day? Good Housekeeping suggests a Tarot card reading.

That is, one would hope, crumb and E. coli-free.

If I’m really being honest here, I’d take that Tarot card reading in bed with a Tarot card reader I’ve never met before I’d ever eat breakfast in bed.

Good Housekeeping also suggests a wine tasting. I’m not opposed to wine tasting. I’m just more of a beer girl. Neshaminy Creek Brewing has bonsai trees for moms to prune while we sip craft brews.

That works.

Visit Bucks County has a link for a Mother’s Day wine tasting at Crossing Vineyards. It runs later than the event at Neshaminy Creek. Meaning I don’t have to choose. I can sidestep the question asked of mothers everywhere:

Who’s your favorite?

Beer, wine. Don’t fight, guys. Mom loves you both.

The Bucks County Courier Times suggests brunch at Green Parrot in Newtown. They have bacon waffles. I cried a little when I read that. Bacon? In waffles? That’s almost as good as Brad and Jen getting back together. And I’d far rather have bacon waffle crumbs on Green Parrot’s floor than on my comforter.

Bacon waffle crumbs on your comforter may not be the worst part of your day. You might even be willing to have a few comforter crumbs for the sake of luxuriating in bed with your mimosa and syrup, which freaks me out to even type.

I wish I could be like you – unfazed by lumps of oatmeal and splashes of milk in your bed. My husband wishes I could be like you, too.

Because breakfast in bed is a slam dunk, a simple way of saying, “Thanks.”

He’ll never have that, my husband. He’ll never have a Mother’s Day that sees me curled up in bed, reading the paper over my tea and sausage links.

Instead, he’ll spend Mother’s Day driving me from Neshaminy Creek to Crossing Vineyards while I hug my bonsai tree in the back seat, crying about bacon waffles to my Tarot card reader.

Which reminds me.

I really need to start working on Father’s Day.

Something tells me breakfast in bed just isn’t enough.

By any definition.

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