Fuss slept in until 8:30 this morning for reasons obscure, a nice Mother's Day gift for dada.
Eventually he rose & helped make Mother's Day breakfast for the Wife, scrambling the eggs and stirring them in the pan. I handled the turkey bacon, which given his quite definite attitudes about appropriate foods he refused to eat.
"Dada, I don't like this FLOPPY bacon." he noted, suspiciously inspecting a piece clamped between thumb and forefinger. "Or these eggs!" he added as I took them off the heat. "That's fine, you don't have to eat them" I answered.
Buttered toast, crusts trimmed & sliced into small triangles, formed the entirety of his morning repast.
I composed a plate for the Wife and set it up on the breakfast tray.
Fuss insisted on carrying the whole assemblage into the bedroom "all by myself!", a precarious endeavor which he completed successfully, requiring only minor assistance from Dada during the transition from floor to bed. We then shared a quite unexpectedly pleasant breakfast together, with Fuss nesting under the comforter daintily nibbling a triangle of toast, grinning and gifting each of us in turn with a "Happy Mother's Day!" punctuated by a kiss.
He throws us these change-ups every so often, a disorienting transition from his usual Hyde-ian continuum of madness & destruction to polite, appreciative Henry Jekyll.
His timing this morning could not have been better.