Mom Off-Duty: The Muffin Crisis and Pop-Tart Meltdown of 7:32 A.M.

There’s a certain question my husband Scott decided to lob at me one quiet Tuesday morning while holding a half-toasted Pop-Tart like it was a crime scene exhibit:

“So… why don’t I get breakfast when Spencer’s at his dad’s?”

Now. Deep breath. Let’s unpack that.

First of all, I have a 50/50 custody arrangement with Spencer’s dad. Every other week, my son Spencer is here, and I’m up at the crack of dawn making actual hot breakfasts like a Pinterest mom who hasn’t yet been emotionally pulverized by life. We’re talking sausage, bacon, eggs, pancakes, maybe even breakfast burritos if I slept more than five hours.

But on the off weeks? The weeks where the house is quieter, the mornings slower?

I. Do. Not. Cook.

I drink coffee. I sit in the dark like a Victorian ghost processing trauma. I let the silence wrap around me like a weighted blanket of survival. I play RAID uninterrupted. And that, my sweet, confused, Pop-Tart-wielding husband, is the trade-off.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Scott. He’s kind, hardworking, funny, and the only man I know who once bought the largest wrench at Harbor Freight just so he could say, “Bet mine’s bigger.” But the man has the emotional resilience of a marshmallow when it comes to breakfast hierarchy.

On Spencer weeks, Scott eats what Spencer eats: waffles, sausage, scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, or whatever crazy recipe I find. He’s living the life. On non-Spencer weeks? He opens the pantry, sees snack muffins and toaster pastries, and acts like he’s been abandoned in a dystopian wasteland.

This morning, I walked into the kitchen to find him dramatically staring into the toaster, whispering,

“Guess it’s just me and you again, strawberry.”

The man made eye contact with a Pop-Tart and sighed.

I asked him if he was okay and he goes, “It’s just hard. One week we’re farm-to-table. The next I’m surviving on vending machine cuisine.”

Sir. Your hands are not broken. You are an adult with access to eggs, a stove, and functioning motor skills. You once built a shelf that holds nothing but my couponing body washes (oh that is a story for another day). I believe in you.

I don’t know what it is about men and breakfast. Maybe it’s because when I do it, I serve it with love, a little sass, and a side of sarcasm. Maybe he thinks the food tastes better because I threaten to throw it at him if he doesn’t eat it while it’s hot.

But the reality is—I’m tired. I’m not running a B&B. I’m running on caffeine and fumes. On off-weeks, I recharge. I regroup. I stare out the window and don’t hear the word “Mom” 97 times before 9am.

So to answer Scott’s question once and for all:
You don’t get breakfast because I’m not a short-order cook. I’m a mother, a woman, a chaos navigator—and on the off weeks, I’m a coffee zombie trying to survive.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to enjoy my silence while Scott dramatically eats a muffin like he’s auditioning for a breakfast-themed soap opera.