by Lorie Fuller
So, my husband brought home my favorite Great Harvest Bread Company cinnamon rolls this morning after taking the kids to swim lessons. I know, I know--that makes him freaking fabulous compared to some husbands, so what can I possibly complain about?
I happen to be one of those weirdos who likes the outside of the cinnamon roll better than the inside. I like the drier, chewier parts. So, since my husband and I met, and I introduced him to the rolls, and we started eating cinnamon rolls together, I always ate the outside; he would eat the inside. Are you with me?
I love sharing! I do! It's nice, fun, family-like behavior! It's part of the silent, unsigned but oh-so-understood contract you unonsciously agree to when you do "the method" and get yourself impregnanted after four years of trying. But, here's the deal: When you get married and then have a couple of kids, those cinnamon rolls get really small!
Once in a blue moon - just once in awhile - I like the idea of eating the whole thing, all by myself, just me. So, this morning, I picked out one of four cinnamon rolls, knowing full well I wouldn't eat the inside, knowing that I would end up sharing it. I poured a mug of coffee, brought the cinnamon roll over to my spot at the kitchen counter, and started to unwrap it. And the first thing that happens? My husband expectantly hands me a knife while my panting children look on.
My family wants me to cut up the cinnamon roll.
First of all, cutting up a cinnamon roll is sacrilege. A cinnamon roll is one piece of dough rolled lovingly into a large spiral with it's yummy sugary goodness inside. The caramelized sugar peeks out from the circular edges, promising more as you unwind it to eat. Cinnamon rolls are meant to be unwound in long strips that you dangle above your upturned mouth as you prepare to take a bite. So, it's bad enough my family wanted to cut the poor thing into pieces to pop unceremoniously into their mouths. Can you imagine what cinnamon roll hell must be like? It's a place where moldy whole cinnamon rolls go to laugh at the ones that are being cut up into pieces. It's the bottom of the barrel.
On top of that, I know I'm supposed to want to do everything as a family, and mostly I do. But I now do four people's laundry and dishes, pick out everyone's clothing in the morning, haven't had a bath to myself in years, act as a human jungle-gym, endure constant interruptions, never get to have a private phone call, step on headless Barbies on my way to the bathroom, and have to cook four different meals each night.
Can't I puhlllease have something all to myself, just this one time? It's not that I actually want the whole thing - it's just the idea of having it all to myself. It's just the simple thought that I could have the whole thing, all to myself, if I wanted it.
They know in the end I'm going to share anyway. They know that when I get to the middle I'll give it lovingly away. Put away the puffy lips, droopy eyes, and hunger-starved looks, and stop making me feel guilty for the want of something private and sinfully good, my way. Just this once. Please?
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