The boys and I almost always eat breakfast together. We used to follow this with basketball or soccer, but since I injured my knee, we’ve gotten lazy. Now, we just do breakfast, and usually that’s way too hurried.

This morning, I was late getting out to the kitchen.

“Sorry,” I yawned. “What’cha got cooking for breakfast?”

“Waffles,” my youngest said. “But not for you, ’cause you don’t like them.”

“Cause they’re nasty and disgusting.”

“Be nice!” my wife called from the other room.

“Okay,” I answered. “They’re not nasty.”

“Just disgusting,” the boys said at the same time.

Waffles are a source of contention in our house. The boys and I like big fluffy home-style waffles. My wife, however, says we’re only allowed to eat the whole grain things that taste like cardboard.

The boys solve this problem by slathering them with various combinations of peanut butter, chocolate, and whip cream.

I shuffled over to the stove. “Anyone want sausage?”

Everyone did.

I set the links to frying, then started on my omelet.

My oldest son was outraged. “Wait! You’re eating eggs? What about us?”

“You’re eating nasty, disgusting waffles. . . with sausage.”

“But we could have had eggs!”

“Yes,” I said. “Why didn’t you cook them instead of waffles?”

He glared at his brother. “Him.”

“Hey,” the waffle-cooker protested, “you didn’t have to say yes.”

I have a sneaky suspicion that I’m going to arrive at breakfast tomorrow to discover a plate full of nasty, disgusting waffles waiting for me, while my kids are eating eggs.