No Raisin in the Son

At 6:40 this morning, ten minutes after his alarm clock had rung, I went upstairs to rouse my twelve year old.  Thus began the weekday ritual.

"What kind of cereal would you like?"

"What do you have?"

This part sometimes changes, based on the contents of the pantry.  "Rice Krispies, Corn Flakes, Honey Bunches of Oats, Rice Chex, Wheat Chex, Special K, Raisin Bran, Cheerios, and Honey Nut Cheerios."

"Does Raisin Bran have raisins in it?"

I looked around for Allen Funt's camera, and then recalled that the dear funny man had gone to meet his maker some time ago.  Then I looked back at my son, who seemed to be conscious but whose eyes were still closed.  Come on, this kid's an honor student.

"Apples and oranges.  No raisins."  Then he cracks a smile.  I continue.  "Oddly enough, that's how they came up with the name.  Bran flakes and raisins."

"Well, I don't want the raisins.  Can I just have a bowl of bran flakes?"

So I go downstairs and shake out a bunch of the cereal onto a paper towel, push the raisins to the side, and then slide the flakes into the bowl.  I repeat the process until I have a whole bowl of flakes and a handful of raisins on the tablecloth.  My ten year old, who's now ready to eat his breakfast, asks what I'm doing.  I explain.

"Can I have his raisins?"

I guess that's why I had more than one kid.