The privilege of eating

Time: 11:08 a.m.
Location: My house - where else do I go?
Situation: food

Yes, food is a situation around here.

At this late hour of the morning, I discover I am hungry. Very hungry. Famished. I have thus far made myself a cup of coffee, which, although very rewarding, does not constitute breakfast. My children, however, have had the following: one glass each of carrot juice (this is not child abuse, they like it), one glass each of chocolate milk, one banana each, one waffle each, and most recently, one string-cheese each. They've eaten more in 2 hours than 20 children in Ghana will eat this month. Terribly unfortunate, but terribly true.
Did I mention I have not had anything yet? I've fed them several times, poured juices, buttered and "syrupped" their waffles, cleaned up the spilled syrup, cleaned up spilled juice and milk, scolded the dog for eating half a string-cheese and thrown away banana peels that were left behind after the children "took care of their messes." Heh.
But I haven't eaten yet.

So, at 11:08, precisely, I begin to consider my growling stomach. I think, "a bowl of grits sounds nice." It may seem like an odd choice, but I really like grits. With a little butter, a little cheddar, a little salt and pepper. I create this dish. It boils over in the microwave. I am not irritated, though. I'm still going to eat. It's going to be okay. About this time, Ella decides to wake from her nap. Screaming. Needing to eat. I glance at the microwave, sigh, and prepare a bottle. I feed Ella. She's happy, sort of. It's now 11:36. I head back to the microwave, and remove a cold bowl of slightly crusty grits. Nonetheless, I dig my spoon in. As I close my eyes in thankfulness for my chance to eat, I hear little footsteps approaching.
It's Gabe.
"Mommy, can I have a bite?"