There comes a point in every parent’s life when you realize you’re not just running a household. You’re running a diner. No, not the cozy kind with checkered floors and sassy waitresses. I mean a full-blown, high-pressure, breakfast-rush kind of diner where the customers are perpetually hungry, impatient, and occasionally bark.

Every morning, I find myself channeling the spirit of that Dunkin’ Donuts guy from the 80s commercial. The one who woke up at the crack of dawn muttering, “Time to make the donuts.” Except in my case, it’s *“Time to make the eggs, the coffee, the kibble, and maybe a side of sanity.”

There’s a choreography to it now. I’m flipping omelets with one hand while slicing apples with the other, the toaster humming in the background like a sous chef that refuses to take direction. My son’s lunch is being assembled with the precision of a NASA operation. Sandwiches, fruit, snack, hydration plan are all being assembled while the dogs hover, their breakfast plates awaiting the chef’s special.

Meanwhile, my coffee (my most loyal companion) sits brewing in the corner, knowing it will be gulped down lukewarm between tasks. I sip it standing up because sitting would imply the show is over, and the show never ends. We’ll, it does once my son heads out the door by 6:47am.

By 5:45am, I’ve performed more multitasking feats than a Vegas magician. I’ve flipped, toasted, sliced, packed, and served. I’ve mediated interspecies eye contact (because the dogs do think my son’s omelet smells better than their food). I’ve become the culinary embodiment of controlled chaos.

And yet, there’s something oddly satisfying about it. This morning routine whicch is absolute madness, is a rhythm of care. Each pancake flipped and apple sliced is a small act of love disguised as labor. It’s my own domestic version of performance art, minus the applause and with significantly more crumbs.

So yes, I’ve become the short-order cook of my household. But unlike the Dunkin’ Donuts guy, I don’t trudge through the door muttering “Time to make the donuts.” I mutter something more modern, like “Time to survive breakfast.”

Then I take a deep breath, refill the coffee, and start all over again. Because after all, the customers, both two-legged and four, are my favorite regulars.