"I'd like to get paid for talking."
            "Fantastic, honey. Get paid by the word and we can jump a couple tax brackets." My husband is hilarious.
            I respond with a somewhat playful, albeit slightly derisive chuckled snort and fling a small amount of pancake batter in his direction. He gives it an exaggerated side chop, small globules of batter splatter his hand and sleeve.
Ahhh! Breakfast for dinner! That budgetary savior at week's end masquerading pending poverty as cool themed dinner ideas!
            "Seriously.” I bring it back around with a sly smile. “I think I could make it work.  Like a motivational speaker. I could help. There must be other people out there like me."
            Another derisive snort, this time from him. The hubs thinks I lack compassion. "Scary thought." He begins to chuckle, the effort stymied by another well aimed thwaap!My stifled laughter at the batter across his hat, ear and sideburn support his argument. Truth be told, I only lack compassion with him because he’s a bit of a diva and needs to toughen up.
            He does have cause, I suppose, to doubt my credentials as a motivational speaker. A particular fact that I will refuse to confirm for him should the occasion arise. I'm a basket case, but I think I am a basket case on the verge of better things. I inhale quickly to adjust to the pressure change and pull a napkin from the pouch of my sweatshirt. He is trying to shift to his serious you’ve gone too far, I have batter on my face look but fails, the smirk winning over his lips. I silently smooch the smirk and return to my task. He watches quietly as I flip a pad of butter to the skillet, trapping it with the corner of my spatula. I write messages in butter around the surface until I run out of room, opaque streaks swirled and sizzling.
            I feel his chin rest on my shoulder before his sugary whisper registers in my ear. "What motivational theory would you share?" His arms wrap around me as if I am a puppet and he begins to scoop batter onto the skillet, making oblong, wavy shapes. Against my back I feel the vibration of his self-satisfied giggle tremble in his core.
            I closed my eyes and smiled, letting my body lean into his. "Maybe advice for navigating pivotal moments, and how to learn from and push forward when you lose your way.” He is laughing harder now, though working hard to hide it. Nevertheless, I push on because I’m passionate. “Maybe I’d appeal to people right on the cusp of getting it together but in danger of becoming a sack of poo so they’d need some motivation to keep the dream alive."
            "Great title." His laughter is now unleashed and we are both leaning and laughing.
            My husband knows that I flop between either considering myself on the cusp of getting it together or as a sack of poo. It is the delight of existing in this paycheck to paycheck roller coaster realm. The delicate balance of attempting to be an inspiring and loving mother, supportive wife and self-sustained child of far more successful parents while constantly living with the knowledge that more could always be done, patience can always be greater, sarcasm always less. We settle our laughter. "I'd probably think of a better name." I clasp my hands behind his back as he continues to pour oddly shaped batter and flip pancakes, occasionally using his hands to rub my face or tap batter on my nose.
The hubs reaches for a plate to stack the ready pancakes and calls to the offspring. He shouts it this way, "Hey, offspring! Hot food!" and flips me around and kisses my forehead to the sounds of squeaking sneakers. "Give it a shot, hon. People will watch anything on-line these days. Start something that way. Who knows? You could develop a following." He dips me, somewhat awkwardly, and looks over my head toward the entrance of the kitchen. "Girl child!" He exclaims, catapulting me back to the pancakes and engulfing our daughter in his arms. She squirms and screeches shrill four-year-old giggles and wiggles her way out of his arms, firmly attaching herself to my leg. Her small painted fingers slyly reach up, snatch a pancake off the plate and dash out of the room to giggles rejuvenated.
            The boy child arrives to give a status report. "Nor has a pancake in the hallway." He proclaims. At seven, he is the informative man of the house, certainly more aware of the state of things than my husband or I could dream to become. His attentiveness to details makes us better parents.
            "Do you want a pancake in the hallway too?" I ask, holding out the plate to him.
            He laughs at my ridiculousness the way my father does though without entirely dismissing the possibility. Nor returns with lightning speed and thieves another pancake, running away again, her maniacal laughter echoing in our small kitchen. This uncivilized behavior seems to settle matters for Finn, who compromises his obvious desire to do something as unconventional as eat in the hallway by taking two pancakes on a plate and rushing from the room before the option to do so no longer exists.
            "Are we picnicking in the hall too?"
            "I suppose we could picnic anywhere." I reply as the pancake plate is again ravaged by the girl.
            "No discipline today? Just beast children running rampant through the house?"
            "Only one beast. The boy child is civil." I respond with underlying defensiveness.
            "'Cause he's like dad."
            "If you mean my dad, then yes, he is. If you are suggesting Finn is like you then I am amazed by your ability to say such wildly insane things with a straight face." I serve a plate of pancakes and hand them to my husband before preparing my own. "We have combined our powers in the creation of the girl. Thankfully the boy takes after our folks." As if on cue, Finn reappears, the mirror image of his father's younger self, holding his empty plate before him.
            "Ready for more, buddy?"
            "Why are the shapes funny?"
            "You didn't like them?"
            "I did. My pancake looked like a snake. Nor is eating on the toilet."
            Beastly fun has reached its threshold and the natives have gone too far with the lack of boundaries. I set my plate on the counter and leave the room to seek out the offender. When I reach the bathroom, door open wide to the world, I discover my daughter, singing loudly between bites of pancake astride the toilet, her feet swinging in rhythm to her song.
            "How are you planning to wipe and wash, my sweet?"
            Nor smiles at me through a hole in her pancake. "I'm gonna finish my pancake before I wipe, Mama."
            "Oh, of course, silly me." I fold my arms and lean against the door jam. "Probably not the best idea to eat on the toilet in the future though. You don't want to munch on poop germs."
            She releases her maniac's giggle again and shoves the pancake into her mouth before batting at the paper like a kitten at play. She balls far too much in her tiny fist.
            "Trying to wipe a river, are you?" I ask as I reduce her ration of toilet paper, returning the surplus to the top of the roll. "A couple squares will do the job, Love. Are you finished eating?" She nods vigorously. "Okay, strip then. Time for a bath."
            With nakedness achieved in record time, Nor is off again, reports of her condition bellowed in the voice Finn reserves for situations he feels are most offensive. I draw the bath water, using the remains of my body wash to make bubbles before Nor is delivered to the bathroom on the shoulders of her father.
            "The boy still seems clean." He says as he places a pink duck on his head and kneels beside the tub.
            "Scrubbed him down myself last night," I boast.
            Nor laughs again as she reaches for the pink duck, leaving a collection of bubbles in its place. I walk from the bathroom as the bubble facials began, remembering that I still have an uneaten plate of pancakes somewhere. Forgetting the thought that I wanted to become a motivational speaker.