Dinosaurs for Breakfast

Today, dinosaurs came for breakfast. They arrived in yesterday's unopened junk mail in an envelope marked "DINOSAURS INSIDE." A page of bright dinosaur stickers were part of the promotional material to entice me to order Highlights for Children magazine.

Forty red, blue, orange, green and purple color combinations of different sizes of dinosaurs cover the slick page. Some have wings, some horns, some claws and feelers. I save this cheerful page and put the rest of the mailer on top of the egg shells in the kitchen garbage.

Since my three sons are college grads, I have no need for a children's magazine. Yet, as I look over this fascinating collection of creatures, I tell myself, "What we need are dinosaurs for breakfast," and I place the page on the breakfast table above my youngest son's plate.

Sam, newly graduated from college, is job hunting. Today he has an 8 am appointment to take a test to qualify for an opening. He's in the shower now. Dinosaurs may ease his nerves.

As a child, Sam was cautious of new situations. In his three-year-old nursery school class, he refused to paint at an easel when his group's turn came. Only after he acted out with me painting-at-an-easel-and-carrying-a-wet-picture-to-dry-on-the-floor-in-the-hall did Sam have the confidence to join this new activity. "At least," I reassure myself, "he's seen where he'll take the test and he's met the man who will give it."

A good breakfast is the best way to start a day. Especially today Sam's needs a good start. He requested an omelet for breakfast. When I make an omelet I pretend that I make the world's most perfect omelet. Today I have a problem. No cheese. Bacon, onions, bell pepper, mushrooms and tomatoes are chopped and waiting. Still, no cheese. "Perhaps a few extra pieces of tomato will substitute for the missing cheese," I try to reassure myself.

When the sound of Sam's shower stops, I melt the butter in the pan. "Maybe the dinosaurs will distract Sam's attention from this no-cheese world's most perfect omelet try," I sincerely hope.

As I add the ingredients and cover the pan, I recall how my sister Mary and I made a game out of any situation. One Christmas morning when we still slept in the downstairs nursery, Mary convinced me that the wet spot on her pillow was melted snow from Santa's beard. "See the wet spot," Mary explained, "Santa's beard brushed my pillow when he leaned down to kiss me, and not you." Years later I realized Mary's drool wet her pillow, not snow from Santa's beard.

Sam enters the kitchen in a new suit and sits down before yet another of my world's most perfect omelet attempts. Buttered toast and orange juice are in place. I settle across from Sam with my bowl of cereal, hoping the lack of cheese won't spoil his breakfast this important day.

"Too many tomatoes," Sam says after his first bite. I bow my head before this harsh judge of omelet quality. "Cheese," I say, before he mentions that the cheese is missing, as I write "cheese" on a nearby tablet, beginning my grocery list. "I promised you an omelet, but we're out of cheese," I confess, praying my confession will gain pardon for this less than world's most perfect omelet.

Sam's silence seems forgiving. "Where did you get these dinosaurs?" he asks, taking my bait. I tell him they came in the junk mail. We eat in silence, our eyes on the dinosaurs.

I point to a diminutive purple dinosaur in the top corner near me and say, "This one's mine." The game begins. Sam does not acknowledge my ownership claim, but carefully looks over the page of dinosaur stickers. "This one's mine," he declares, picking a large, red dinosaur at the bottom of the page.

Sensing his strategy, I know my next move. A yellow dinosaur with red spots on its back, a blue nose, a green horn near its gapping mouth, with red eyes and claws, brandishing two green feelers, has no equal on the page. I place my finger on its smirking, lurking hulk. "This one's mine," I state.

"No," Sam shouts. "I was going to pick that one next. It's the biggest on the page. If you're going to have him, then this, this, this and this one are mine." He indicates each big dinosaur not taken. "You can have the rest. I can beat you with these," he claims.

I didn't expect Sam to show such resoluteness in our imaginary game. Mary would never choose a dinosaur for its bigness. She's so non-violent, she's a vegetarian. Mary would pick her dinosaurs for their color combinations and apparent character. But, Sam, my youngest and tallest, picks his dinosaurs for their strength to beat me.

During the day I relive our breakfast with the dinosaurs and laugh. At dinner I advise Sam that my next choice is a dinosaur with wings, the green one in the middle of the page.

"Oh, no," he insists, and our game continues. "I get all the big ones and the ones that fly, so I can beat you with muscle on the ground and get you from above. You can have the rest."

I smile, remembering Sam in his high chair, holding his spoon defiantly in his left hand, twisting away from every spoonful of food I offer. Refusing my help, he repeats his first sentence while slinging applesauce on the floor, "I do it myself," over and over."

"Do it yourself, Sam," I muse to myself. "Control every spoonful of your promising life and your first real job. I have all I can handle just remembering the cheese."