Hannah yawns loudly and scratches at the rat’s nest on her head. “What’s for breakfast?”
I ignore the irony: if I asked Hannah what she was making for breakfast while she was very clearly in the middle of cooking eggs, she would have a meltdown. “I’m making eggs.”
“Eggs? I hate eggs.”
“What are you talking about? I thought eggs are your favorite breakfast.”
“Yeah. When I was, like, eight years old.”
I put down the spatula I’ve been using to slowly stir the eggs. That’s the trick to making good eggs. Cook them low and slow. “I made them for you this weekend and you ate them up.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean they’re my favorite. God, Mom.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It seems like lately, every conversation I have with my daughter is an exercise in trying not to say something really mean back to her. I close my eyes and repeat my mantra to myself: I am the adult. This is just a phase.
After fourteen years, it’s harder to convince myself it’s all just a phase.
“What else is for breakfast?” Hannah asks, even though she is two feet away from the refrigerator and three feet away from the pantry.
“Frozen waffles?”
“Yuck.” She sticks out her tongue. “What else?”
“You can make yourself some cold cereal.”
“What kind of cereal do we have?”
I sigh. “I don’t know, Hannah. Go look in the pantry.”
She lets out a grunt as she stands up that would make you think she is ninety years old rather than a high school freshman. She limps over to the pantry and studies the boxes of cereal intently.
While Hannah contemplates the pantry, my son, Liam, joins us in the kitchen. Unlike his sister, Liam is fully dressed in what is a surprisingly nice blue button-down shirt and khaki slacks. I bought a new wardrobe for him over the summer when he shot up four inches and all his old clothes looked comically short. He recently turned sixteen, which means he went to the DMV last month with my husband to get his learner’s permit to drive. I had thought my son getting his learner’s permit would fill me with terror, but I’m oddly calm about the whole thing. Liam will be a good driver. He’ll be careful, he’ll pay close attention to the road, and he’ll never drink and drive. I’m certain of that much.
That’s not why I’m worried about him driving.
“Eggs. I love eggs. Thanks, mom!”
Liam’s lips spread into an appreciative smile. He was always an attractive kid, but in the last couple of years, he’s grown downright handsome. We were out at a restaurant as a family last weekend, and I caught a woman who was in her twenties giving him a second look. A full grown adult was checking him out! There is something about his thick dark hair and chocolate-colored eyes that almost twinkle when he smiles. Unlike Hannah, Liam never needed braces, and his smile reveals a row of perfectly straight, white teeth.
According to my mother, Liam looks very much the way my father did when he was young. My father died when I was a child and I barely remember him, but I’ve seen pictures, and I agree the resemblance is uncanny. I keep one of those photos in a drawer by my bed, and lately, every time I look at it, I get a pang in my chest. It was hard enough knowing my dad never got to see me grow up, and it’s another sting to know he’ll never meet the grandson who looks just like him.
Hannah pulls a box of Cheerios out of the pantry and studies the label, her nose crinkling.
“What’s in Cheerios?” she asks me.
“Poison.”
“Mom!” That was at least four syllables right there. M-o-o-om. “You know I’m trying to lose weight and be healthy. Don’t you want me to be healthy?”