Every morning I step on a cheerio.
This is not hyperbole. This is just a regular part of my morning routine.
Turn on the news. Crunch a cheerio into the floor.
It’s as predictable as the moment I can expect to see the girls emerge together from their room: 6:58 on the microwave clock.
No exaggeration here, either. The moment their clock gives them the green light (literally), they are out of their beds and in the kitchen to join me and the rest of the Good Morning America anchors.
Sawyer usually wakes up as soon as the cereal hits the first bowl. Two steps toward his door and I crunch another cheerio. With this pause, I am quickly passed by the girls, eager to greet their little brother.
I could finish the rest of the breakfast dance with my eyes closed.
Egg in the skillet. Toast in the toaster. More milk in the cereal.
Water. Vitamin. Coffee.
Shhhhhh. (Can a girl just listen to what George Stephanopoulos has to say?)
Wash hands. Wash faces. Sweep floor.
Miss a cheerio.
Every morning it’s the same. There are no breaks for weekends or weekday holidays. There is no delayed start for sickness or overall exhaustion.
The rhythms of my mornings just do not change.
And yet, I’ve come to find that I like these predictable beats.
I like the breakfast routine because we all count on it.
It’s expected. It’s together. It’s safe.
It’s one of my favorite times of the day.
Cheerio dust and all.