I made pancakes after Christmas. Guess it was more like brunch. But that was the first time my son had even agreed to try them. He always liked waffles before that. Anyway yea now I turned him over to the pancake side. It was by telling him the truth, which was that they were actually better than waffles. Tho I also just haven’t made any in a while because I sometimes get confined to the things he likes. I end up going extra simple myself to save time. But whether I cook or go out to eat, I don’t want any fake shit. I want the real thing. So I made them with buttermilk and such for us, and we ate it.

In the end, there were like two that got fucked up in the layers later. Brutally scalped by a previous pancake when it was torn away. Those ones were sacrificed to the street. They ended up on the sidewalk outside of my house because I hesitated throwing them out, knowing how cold it is and how desperate the birds are. Living on scraps. One or two scouted me out from the gate when I was getting in my car. I swear they listened for the bag to crinkle. They were on those pancakes before I even closed the door. More came swooping down, more and more.

I rolled down the window to take a picture, and they all flew up and away. I closed the window again, and they all came right back. Then more came. And by now my son wants more too.

-Rachel Wagner 2020

Other pieces I wrote on this topic: One random hour without my kid & Forgetting your book & Lolita & R. Kelly & Me