Something is going on around here. This weekend I awoke to the clatter of my kids bringing me breakfast in bed, both Saturday and Sunday morning. I can barely drag them out of bed for school but somehow they muster the strength on the weekends to get up early and feed their father.

Saturday morning they prepared my favorite, Frosted Mini-Wheats. Nothing kick starts the intestines like bowlful of sugar coated fiber. Top that off with some coffee and you’re as regular as Old Faithful, minus the tourists, park rangers, and gift shop.

Sunday morning they brought me a plate full of the monkey bread that I had made for them the night before and a glass of chocolate milk. Jackson informed me that the chocolate milk was homemade by his sister. If you don’t know what monkey bread is it’s a bunch of little pieces of dough that are thrown in a bunt pan, topped with caramel, and baked for approximately 25 minutes at 375 degrees.

You would know why they call it monkey bread if you saw me in the kitchen tearing little pieces off and poking them in my mouth as quickly as the hot caramel will allow. You use the bunt pan so you can eat a section and slide it together and nobody will know. Well enough cooking tips from Billy Crocker. We had french toast and chicken noodle soup for supper so don’t contact me for any culinary advice.

The french toast was made from bread that I made in the bread machine. It was supposed to be ‘light’ wheat bread, but light is not the word that would come to mind when you hefted it up for a bite.

The bread reminded me of a squirrel that made an attempt on my life last year. I came out of our apartment and as I was walking under a branch I noticed a squirrel poised on it holding what appeared to be a rock. I thought, “Oh no it’s starting.” They’ll start by using primitive weaponry like rocks but soon enough they’ll be pillaging the neighborhood on dogback with hubcap shields, tin can helmets, and yard dart spears.

Before the terror completely griped me I noticed that the rock was actually the heal from the loaf of bread I had thrown out the day before. Honest mistake, the breads DNA was closer to granite than Sweatheart. As I watched the squirrel drag it to his home I hoped that his buddies new about the Heimlich maneuver or there would be one less squirrel to carry out their plan to overthrow the neighborhood.

Maybe my children are softening me up for an overthrow. Keep feeding the old man so that in a few years they’ll have to come and tear down a wall to get him out of bed. If they switch my frosted mini-wheats to bacon wrapped sausages dipped in butter I’ll start to worry and accuse them of being in cahoots with the squirrels.

Until then I’ll just be thankful for being blessed with thoughtful, loving children.