I don’t really do breakfast, but sometimes breakfast in bed would be nice. A hot cup of tea, warm croissants with butter and thick strawberry jam. Danish pastries. Bacon sandwich. Fresh orange juice! All on a tray, served to me by some hunky, half-naked guy (okay, hubby will do). Not every day, but every now and again would be nice. Birthdays. Mother’s Day. You know, special days. I’m lucky if I get a simple cuppa though.
They say that to get to a man’s heart, you should go through his stomach. I think the same could be said about me.
Despite the fact that most of the times you end up with crumbs in the sheets, a husband, dog, and two children trying to steal your toast, there is definitely something romantic about being brought breakfast in bed. I’m even happy to ignore the fact that I’ll probably have to wash the pots afterwards, and clear up the food-bomb that went off in the kitchen. Being brought food and a hot cup of caffeine at a reasonable time (i.e. after 7.30 a.m.) would not only be a lovely way to wake up, but show me the appreciation and love I crave.
Now I don’t want anyone to go thinking I’m an attention-seeker (although I am), but I spend all day clearing up after and feeding everyone else. It would be nice to be shown that sort of care. To know that all my hard work, yelling and screaming, has not gone in vain and unnoticed, would make everything worth while.
Of course I know that my family love me, but let’s not forget that as a woman we are so much more than mothers and wives. And the simple act of a home-cooked breakfast, and fresh cup of tea helps us to remember that.