Chocolate Chip Pancakes, Hold the Pancakes

Making pancakes is a true labor of love around here. Not because I hate cooking (which I do), nor because I'm lousy at it (also true), but because of the level of chaos involved. From the moment the griddle crash-lands onto the burner, Lil' Miss is on the move, heading for the kitchen with single-minded resolve. She could not be more determined to get somewhere if the Mothership had landed and was calling her home. She swiftly slides a chair across the floor and warns "Watch out, watch out, people!" so she can bunker down right in front of, not next to, but IN FRONT OF, the stove.

By the time I grab onto the chair, she's already standing on it, death-gripping a mixing spoon in her hand. She's in a trance-like state, her lazer beam eyes on lock-down with the batter bowl, ready to swoop down and knuckle-slap any trespassers with that spoon-yielding hand. She looks like a deranged pirate guarding precious buried treasure.

Shaking my head, I drag the chair over while she's still standing on it and commence the measuring and pouring of the batter. There's no question who will do the stirring. It's always better if I just back away and let her carry out this little charade on her own. Holding a spoon in the bowl, she aimlessly moves her hands around in half-hearted circles, a decoy for the shameless amount of batter she is simultaneously shoveling into her mouth.

I've decided to go for Mother of the Year and add chocolate chips. But just as I tip the bag into the batter bowl, Lil' Miss lunges towards it (I'm assuming to help me pour), knocking it out of my hand and dumping half of the bag's contents into the bowl. Now I'm staring at an enormous mound, a mountainous island of brown chips jutting out of a sea of pancake mix, a noticeably small sea in comparison to the Chocolate Mt. Everest that has just erupted. I shake the bowl to even things out and now I can't even see the batter anymore. The chips are so thick it takes both of my hands firmly clutching the spoon to stir them around.

A hungry Baby Dude starts scream-crying in the middle of the kitchen floor and I start making those "ughhhh-ing" sounds, the ones I make when I am clearly stressed. It's yet another breakfast disaster. Lil' Miss, always willing to comfort those she's just driven crazy, starts rubbing my back, in beautiful batter-worthy circles no less, and says, "It's okay, Mom. It's okay. He's not crying. He's just speaking Spanish." Strangely, this somehow makes me feel better.

I'd love nothing more than to toss this defective concoction into the trash and go back to doing what I do best for breakfast- filling the food trough with Cheerios. But, as you all know, I am green now, very eco-friendly, so this is not a viable option. Instead I reconcile myself to the fact that my kids will be eating chocolate cakes drizzled with batter for breakfast. And as I watch them devouring this Sugarfest, melted chocolate smeared across their cheeks (and forehead in the case of Baby Dude), a wicked smile spreads across my face as I realize they'll be smack dab in the middle of Sunday School by the time this glucose overdose hits their bloodstream. Of course, it is not until we are walking out the door for church that I remember WHO is scheduled to teach their Sunday School class this week.