Breakfast in Bed

It’s a lazy Saturday morning. But I have to get out of bed, as I have promised my son, Kid Schumacher, that his dad and I would go to their school’s mission fair — you know, one of those fund-raising activities that schools never seem to run out of — and watch him dance to the theme of High School Musical.

“Mom, I’d like to have breakfast in bed,” this half-awake 8-year-old says to me, as he ALWAYS says on weekends.

Oh my, it’s 8:30 already. We have to be in school by 10. Dash to the kitchen I did.

Fried rice. Sausages. Eggs, sunny-side-up, well done.

Cafe mocha for my Bitter Half — 3-in-1, chocolate, and sugar. Ummm, smells heavenly.

And newspapers.

All aboard a classic wooden lap tray with a very-now Lightning McQueen placemat, courtesy of my racing-fanatic son.

It’s always like this on weekends. And it’s always nice. What a way to start the day. Nice, nice weekend mornings!

Oh, and it’s okay to be late… I think.

My First Time Hurt

It was new to me… totally Greek. Didn’t know how to do it… didn’t know anything at all.

I was wondering how others could do it so seamlessly, effortlessly almost. With excitement, grace, fiery passion…

Did anybody teach them how? How to go step by step — slowly, carefully? Guiding them how to drop their inhibitions? How to throw caution to the wind? How to release the tension building up inside and then burst with ecstasy?

Or was it just their own imagination — unlimited, wild, taunting, teasing? 

I’m ashamed to ask.

I just got to do it myself, on my own…

With courage I did it.

And, as they all say, the first time truly hurts.

But it was orgasmic, yeah…

             writing my very first BLOG.

             Welcome to my bittersweet life!