Years ago, when I first heard the term Pancake Child, I thought it was funny in a tongue-in-cheek kind of way. The reference is to that primary pancake poured onto a griddle as a test run to see if all is in working order.
We are failing an entire population while we bicker over bullets. Admittedly, it is easier to point to the weapon than to expose failures in our own homes.
I don’t mean to brag, but I did finally learn to cook. When I first moved in with my instant family, I would look at whichever box I pulled out of the pantry and think, “Okay, serving size, 4oz…so…what, make four of those?”
A year ago at this time, we hadn’t yet found out that our child had essentially dropped out of her life. Today, we are preparing to send her out of the nest again and we are hitting all emotions.
My kids are gross. I don’t even care. Well, I mostly don’t even care. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to the 5% of me that still gets bowed up at the pure “ick” of teenage hygiene.