Our new kitchen has a counter-peninsula-type-thing (official kitchen term, patent pending), with three bar stools.  This layout has resulted in a charming little morning routine.  Three boys lined up at the counter, as their father shovels food toward them.

Last week, as the boys dug into their bowls of Lucky Charms (yes, dad worked really hard preparing breakfast that morning, but hey, it is almost St. Patrick’s Day and who does not want to eat pure sugar early in the morning), hum where was I?  Oh yes, the boys were eating their first (yes, first) breakfast of the morning and I had a few seconds to prepare my own grub.  Reaching for the Quaker Oats, I prepared them the old fashioned way.  The way people have prepared oats for over thirty classic years, with microwave magic.  Who really cares how those oats are insufferably boiling from the inside out?  Cook, baby, cook.

So my oats were under production.  Oats.  Check.  Milk.  Check.  Stir, just a tad.  Check.  Dash of salt.  Check.  The boys paid no attention.  They scarfed down compressed marshmallow-like bits shaped like rainbows, clovers, and other such charming stuff.  Magically delicious.  I had to bring this party back home.

Turning to the boys, I asked?  “What is my oatmeal missing?”  They looked at me puzzled.  Heading to the kitchen window, I reached high above the sink.  Pinching at some air, bright morning light streamed onto my face.  Smiling, I rubbed my pinched fingers over my raw oats.  Glancing at my boys, I said in all sincerity, “They needed a dash of sunshine.”  One child smiled.  Another looked mildly confused.  There was however a consensus, “Our father is a goof, but a happy goof.  We’ll keep him around and consider feeding him, when he grows old.”  (Okay, I’m just hoping they’ll decide to feed me later in life.)

Over the next few days, the skit continued.  A reference to sunshine shortages on cloudy days.  A story about how I was shopping for the right container to bottle sunshine.  Talking about sunshine’s free market value.  Dropping them off at school and pretending to sprinkle some sunshine on their heads.  You get the idea, I was blathering on and my kids were lovingly tolerant.  Nothing unusual.

Then came the inevitable.  A grumpy morning for dad.  (I know, my seven faithful readers are saying, “Gasp!,” but it’s true.  Mr. Sunshine sometimes becomes Grumpy Bunny.)  I’m not sure what had me all sour.  Toilet backups, disputes over morning routines, car shopping interest rates, unreported homework assignments are all candidates, in this instance however, I can’t recall.  Any who, grumpy pop was serving up food with a scowl.  That’s when my 9-year-old son Sam looked at me, smiled, and said, “Dad, you need a little sunshine.”  Yep, Sam was right and I turned to my boys.  Seeing my own eyes in their young faces, I was reminded that in my kids, God has blessed me with a lifetime supply of sunshine.  Little happiness factories.  I would never be in need.  I smiled.  The grumpiness had passed.  Sometimes, just a sprinkle of sunshine is all you need.