Among my children’s less-than-lovely qualities: they treat breakfast time as if they are sitting in a diner with a thirty-page menu, and I am their chef, server, and dishwasher (who is, of course, also tasked with getting them dressed and washed and brushed and out the door by 8:35 on the dot with whatever toy absolutely must be carried to school and then carried back home with me, because toys aren't allowed in school but no one seems to have internalized that fact).
One of them would like triple-berry pancakes with a side of bacon (extra crispy), and for the other only house-baked muffins and hand-churned cream will do (if you could just zest that fresh lemon real quick it'd be much appreciated, mama). And all of these things must be on the table right. Now. (I am kidding, obviously, but only a little. Seriously, they are SO SPECIFIC.)
I can't do it. NO ONE could do it.