I face a test every morning.
It involves a finger prick and a reading. How’d I do with that late-night snack? My glucose monitor doesn’t lie. I know what to expect mornings after three bowls of Frosted Flakes the night before. I know what to expect when it’s been an English muffin and sun butter.
I try to start my mornings with a tall glass of water and stretching.
They replace a swig of Coke Zero and bleary-eyed checks of the mobile phone and blog comments. I crack eggs to eat over medium with a warm tortilla, or scrambled, wrapped in tortillas or mixed in with strips of corn tortilla, fried in olive oil.
Sometimes I’ll have a post-breakfast, pre-lunch, 9 a.m. snack at work. Don’t judge.
One morning, the non-stick frying pan and sprays of extra-virgin olive oil conspired to send me the message you see above. I showed it to Grace. I reminded her of the post she’s compiling of faces she finds in places often only kids can see them.
And I reminded us both there’s plenty of kid in dad still, too.