"Perhaps you are hungry?" I suggest, as I try to take her hand. She denies me the privilege and shrugs, then slogs down the stairs as if her feet are sticking to mud. "Perhaps you should go back to bed?" I wonder out-loud anticipating the flat glance I receive in silent reply.
Ezra sets her own breakfast place with graham crackers and my mom's homemade jam. Her favorite striped glass usually reflects her cheerful mood. Today, however, she doesn't care. The two graham crackers break in the center. She is mad. I carefully remove two sheets from the snug brown paper, with a dramatic flare, and place them on her plate, "Taadaa!" She runs from the table, back upstairs, pulls the blanket over her head and begins to sob!
I kiss the blanket-clad head and explain, "When you are ready, I will teach you to remove the graham crackers, unbroken...then you can do it yourself." Several minutes pass before the willingness can take affect. Ezra joins me in the kitchen downstairs and climbs into her chair. Her plate is empty because I have already shimmied the crackers back into their tight space. I show her the careful way. Her first attempt fails. I remove the broken ones and the next one she takes slips out perfectly! She "jams it" (as Zion would say) and almost smiles. Then she asks for orange juice. With a sigh I admit, "The only way for juice today is if you make it yourself, but you must let Mommy help you."