Friday breakfast

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With the academic year coming to an end, earlier this morning Emmett and I had our last Friday pre-school breakfast before summer.

This is something we started last August. Every Friday, we’d groggily shuffle into the car and pick a breakfast spot. There’ve probably been, oh, 15 different places in all, ranging from iHop and Stacks to the Original Pancake House and a little coffee shop with blissful beignets. And while it has always been nice enjoying some eggs or a stack of pancakes, what does it for me is the ritualistic placid beauty of the ritual.

In short—we talk. And play Gin. And Tic Tac Toe. We build stacks of milk containers and sugar packet castles. We discuss school and sports and the USFL and politics and kids and adults. We kid with the waiters and waitresses and debate whether blueberries or strawberries make better pancake filler.

Mostly, it’s a relaxed time with my son, who is growing faster than a weed in the midst of a cool June breeze.

I try and slow down the days.

I try and stop time.

It never really works.

But it helps.