Oliver loves pancakes. Going to diners for breakfast has been routine for our family. And Matt gifted me with an electric griddle a few years ago, so we could up our flap jack game. Purchasing real maple syrup is a necessity in our home - no Aunt Jemima or Log Cabin here.
I spent part of this afternoon unpacking Oliver's Real Food Blends from our supply company. Each month I receive a tower of boxes full of pureed food. Instead of having the boxes sit in our dining room until they were needed, I decided to move some things around in our kitchen. I cleared two shelves under our coffee supplies and squeezed in as many pouches as possible. Neat and tidy and organized, with each different meal in a separate plastic bin.
I was only left with one item to relocate. The electric griddle. As I opened cabinets to find space for the behemoth, I realized that I will most likely not be using it very much anymore. Blueberry pancake breakfasts no longer appeal to me. Oliver can't eat them anymore.
I was overcome with the truth that I will never make him pancakes again. I won't see his fingers dyed purple from the blueberries, sticky from the syrup. This simple realization has knocked the air out of me. And I am heartbroken.