Friday morning. My feet had not even hit the floor, and they were already screaming.
“What in the world could possibly be wrong ALREADY”?!,” my voice bellowed down the stairs.
“They’re eating ice cream for breakfast,” said the older brother.
My feet hit the floor. I marched down the stairs, ready to do major clean up of the puddles of ice cream that I could just imagine was all over the floor in front of the freezer.
There they were, calmly sitting the table, their bowls full of ice cream, as they scooped up spoonful after spoonful.
Ice cream for breakfast. Do you really have a problem with that?