I was trying to remember when the Norwegian Mother’s Day is (it’s this Sunday) last night and started thinking about bringing my parents breakfast in bed. I used to do this fairly frequently as a kid. I assume it must have started with one of my parents helping me (my father at Mother’s Day my mother at Father’s Day) or me helping whenever one of them had a birthday, but once I was old enough to work the coffee maker I was allowed to get on with it. And at some point I must have decided that waiting for special occasions to come along was not really necessary, and so my parents would get breakfast in bed whenever I felt like it (apart from birthdays I’d stick to Sundays, though). I learnt the importance of checking the time the day when they were somewhat unappreciative – it was half past five in the morning, as far as I can remember – but other than that I can’t recall any major mishaps.
Then, when I got to around 15 or 16, my parents stopped sleeping in, even on a Sunday, and I started, and the timing, therefore, was no longer in my favour.
Nowadays, I myself get breakfast in bed almost every weekend – and proper breakfast, too (bacon/sausage and eggs) rather than the coffee or tea and odd bisquit which seemed to be enough to please my parents first thing in the morning.
I seem to have done rather well, boyfriend-wise.
Note to self: As my parents are back from Thailand on Sunday, I suppose I ought to send a card.
Voice in my head: Shania Twain – From This Moment