It feeds my soul. It's my favorite part of the day. August and I are morning people (and Todd indulges us), so we sit around the table, eating, chatting. August stands on his chair and tells us stories, and so he paces all of us. It's the only time consistently we are all together as a family, and it's the fantasy I have when I think about what my perfect life would be.

Usually breakfast is cereal or oatmeal, or sometimes toasted bread or English muffins. This morning, because Todd's been complaining about the usual routine, I made scrambled eggs. I'm in the fluffy curds camp, not the flat, one-piece omelet-type camp, so I add a little water to the mixed-up eggs, maybe with some grated cheese or fresh herbs and definitely salt and pepper. Then I stir them in the skillet until they're almost cooked, and I turn off the heat toward the end so the carry-over heat can finish them off.

I guess the fact that breakfast such a brief moment in our daily lives is what makes the time we spend together at holidays, vacations, even weekends feel special. All of August's grandparents live a plane-ride away, and every once in a while I can be philosophical about it. August appreciates the time he has with them so much because they're not around all the time. I can't say whether it's more than if they were here every day, since that arrangement is just a dream for me, but I do think that every day grandma and grandpa are around is a holiday.