2. Then
Then: September 13th, 16 years ago
I wake up to the smell of pancakes. Not just any pancakes though. Mom’s homemade butterscotch maple pancakes. She’s made them for me for as long as I can remember. They were one of the first foods she gave me when I was a baby.
Of course, I never minded because they are delicious. It’s already after seven, and if I don’t hurry I won’t have time to eat them before school. I throw on some clothes that I think are clean and rush into the kitchen.
Mom is right where I expect her to be. She’s already sitting at the table with a big ooey, gooey bite in her mouth. There’s a plate next to hers stacked high with pancakes waiting for me to dig into. Dad’s already long gone for work. He wakes up earlier than both of us and is long gone before we have breakfast.
But that’s okay because this is my tradition with Mom anyway. She does this every year on my birthday. And today is my sweet sixteen. She attempts to pull out my chair for me with her foot but misses, completely kicking the chair over. It startles me, and I jump back, nearly dodging the impact.
Mom lets out a small laugh at first, and then it echoes inside her entire petite frame, rattling her from the inside out. Pure joy. Pure amusement at the scene in front of her. Her laughter spills out everywhere, and it’s contagious. I find myself laughing too. Full-on belly-clenching laughter.
We are both laughing until the pancakes grow cold and tears are streaming down our faces. We don’t stop laughing until we hear a loud, blaring sound outside. Our eyes lock, and I become a sped-up version of myself. I yank a pancake dripping in syrup off the plate and shove it as quickly as I can into my mouth. Mom nearly knocks over her chair in her haste to search for my backpack.
We work amazingly well together in the morning chaos. We are reckless and messy, and she’s shoving me out the door before either of us has even spoken a word to each other. My backpack is thrust over my shoulders and fingers are swiping at my mouth, catching the remaining drips from the sticky, sweet syrup. The bus honks at us again and we both stifle a giggle. Before I can dart off in its direction she grabs my face in between her sticky fingers and kisses me on my nose.
Most of my birthdays start like this. Rushed, sticky, and sweet. These are the mornings I love the most. The mornings I wouldn’t change for the world.