The alarm on my phone goes off and I reach down to turn it off. I lay still, not yet ready to get up. Not yet. I try and clear my mind, breathe through the feelings that rush to race my heart. Five deep breaths and then I lower my feet to the ground. Shuffling to the kitchen, I reach for the box of pancake mix. I leave it open on the counter, not even bothering to close it up and put it in the cabinet. With my eyesight not quite caught up, and the faint engraving of the measuring cup, I squint to ensure it is the right one. ⅓ cup. 

 

I measure out three level scoops and drop them into the round metal bowl. I turn the faucet to cold, and when it is, I measure out two level scoops of water. There is no wisk, so I use the tines of the fork and mix, trying my best to break up the chunks of pancake mix. I turn on the electric stove to halfway between 7 and 8 on the black dial, the best setting I have learned , and go lie back down for 2 minutes while the pan heats and the pancake batter rises slightly. 

 

Using the same scoop, I pour two blobs into the pan, and watch, waiting for the right amount of air bubbles to rise signaling it is time to flip them over. I have learned to wait, longer than I think, for the right shade of beige and a perfectly cooked pancake. I repeat with two more pancakes and then use the remaining batter for one last, slightly larger final pancake. 

 

While waiting for bubbles, I set the table, plate, knife, butter and water. No fork. No syrup.  When the last pancake is transferred to the plate  on the table, steam rising from them, I tap on the door and let the kid know, breakfast is ready. I hear stirring. Silence. Then more stirring, and finally feet that hit the ground. 

 

I make the pancakes each day, only two physical ingredients pancake mix and water, but endless amounts of love, worry, hope, anxiety, patience, and gratitude.