"Yes," he replied.
"Scrambled eggs too?" I asked.
So he went to bed and when I woke up Friday morning, I realized I'd have to cut short my run in order to get back in time to cook breakfast for Tucker. That was fine.
I just ran a couple of miles and headed to the kitchen.
Pancake batter at the ready, eggs beaten, blueberry sauce simmering in the pot, I listened for the shower to turn off so I could cook the eggs and pancakes.
I scrambled the eggs, making sure to get them dry the way he liked. I carefully cooked the pancakes to be sure they were done, but not brown.
By the time Tucker moved to hang up his towel in the bathroom, dressed for the day, I called to him that his breakfast was ready.
I set the plate on a place mat and poured an oversized glass of milk, which is what he drinks most mornings.
As he walked into the dining room, he looked at the plate and said, "I don't have time to eat that. I need to leave."
I shrugged and didn't make eye contact.
"What am I supposed to do? I can't possibly start eating now."
"Do what you have to do," I said.
So he slipped his shoes on and approached me as I stood over the sink washing the skillet I used to cook the eggs. He bent down for me to kiss him on his bearded cheek.
"Thanks for the breakfast, Mom," he said.
Then he paused at the wooden cabinet and pulled out a pack of Pop Tarts before he closed the door behind him.
I stared at the plate. I hadn't been home from my run long enough to be hungry yet and I thought about being angry at my selfish teenager. But I think selfish teenager is redundant.
Tucker spends a lot of evenings at home alone while I teach. Many evenings dinner is just pizza or something we pick up at Subway.
I spend a lot of time juggling classes, talking to Grace or Spencer at college, spending time with my husband. Tucker may feel the need to test me, to see if I'll change my schedule to kowtow to his needs.
And this morning, I did. I passed his test.
But because I didn't throw a fit about him skipping the breakfast I lovingly cooked, I'm pretty sure that guilt is nibbling at him somewhere.