For breakfast the child had hashbrowns. Hardly newsworthy I know, but to me hashbrowns are funny. According to the dictionary “hash” is “a mess, jumble, or muddle” or “a reworking of old and familiar material” This is hardly appetizing when considering a reworking of old and familiar material that is jumbled is what you are eating. If you put any other word after “hash” would you want to eat it? Hashchicken? Hashbeef? I don’t believe I would care for a jumble of reworked chicken parts for dinner. A third definition of the word “hash” is the one the child choses to use “to discuss or review (something) thoroughly” She believes that each bite must be discussed as if she were training to be a culinary writer. Very few understand the “hash” (definition used here is “jumble”) that is coming out of her mouth, but she will tell you how the subtle hint of salt tempts her tastebuds and the earthy flavor of potatoes soothes the soul. She will moan in pure delight as each morsel is held in her cheeks, truly making it feel as though you have delighted royalty with your cuisine.

Speaking of royalty, my mother bought me a tiara. Yes, it is odd for a 30 year old to receive a tiara as a gift. But it was just what I needed. When you stay at home with children, you have a tendency to live in peasant mode. You cook the meals, clean the floors and wipe the nose and bottoms of the royalty. I have a deep, blue velvet robe that I put on from time to time, much like Cinderella trying on her gown in the attic, with hopes of attending the ball. I take off the faded, bleached t-shirt and sweatpants and slip into luxury. I float through the house with my arms extended straight down, palms facing down and fingers to the side. I am royalty for a moment as I gracefully step over wooden blocks and noisy, blinking toys. I look down at the child over my nose with my chin raised and inform her that “Mother dearest must resign to her boudoir for a moment’s peace. Please inform me when the master arrives so I may join him in the parlor for tea” She suffers my fantasies. When telling my mother of my royal thoughts and how vacuuming and diaper changing would be more pleasant if you are wearing a tiara, she humored me by presenting me with a perfectly adorned tiara to wear during my moments. This morning as I was serving the child her hashbrowns (there is that word again) and shoving dirty clothes in the washer, I looked over and saw the tiara sparkling on the table. I placed it gingerly on top of my morning (haven’t brushed it yet) hair, informed the child that after she finished partaking her breakfast we would have the servant bring around the carriage and enjoy a mid-morning ride around the grounds. I blew her the royal Mommy-dearest kiss, waved to her in queen-like fashion and she raised her hand (thought she was going to live the fantasy with me) and smacked herself on the forehead. I guess I am not fooling anyone.