I Never Appreciated Cereal

Year after year, night after night, gallon of milk after gallon of milk, I watched my son eat a heaping bowl of soggy cereal, right before dozing to sleep. The dishes would pile on his bedside desk for days. Occasionally, a straggler bowl never made it to the dishwasher for cleansing, but found its demise in the trash can, crusted (or molded, in some cases) beyond sanitizing. Keeping bowls stocked on the shelves was quite the feat. It was not uncommon for him to resort to using salad spinners, Tupperware, or mixing bowls in desperate times.

Admittedly, I do not see the draw in a General Mills night cap. Milk is a slimy liquid that tends to produce an influx of goobers. Cereal is too sweet for settling my night-time stomach, and the grainy texture leaves my inner cheek layers shredded. Although I never esteemed cereal, I did keep a lofty supply in the pantry, which gave my son a variety of options.

I never before appreciated cereal as much as I did while eating that big bowl of Honey Smacks at 11:30 the night he departed for the Caribbean. It was an unforgettable midnight snack; one with a reel of pleasant memories stuck on replay; perhaps a tradition which will evolve into my own mini-ritual over the next two years.