"I want a fried egg sammich!"

"I want waffles!"

There is a breakfast cacophony bouncing off the sides of the G.E. making my head spin like an RCA Victor turntable, circa 1945.

It is seven o'clock in the morning and normally, I don't speak English before eight. Even then, Babe safely communicates with me using one syllable words and only then after my first cup of Starbucks.

With that in mind, will someone please tell me how I'm supposed to decipher the constant flow of food orders now spewing from the mouths of the Grandkids from Hell?

"Hold it!" I tighten my grip on the kitchen counter top, my life line to the real world. "I can only hear one person at a time," I say. "Now, two of you hush and one of you speak."

"I want pancakes!"

"I want a fried egg sammich!"

"I want waffles!"

"French Toast!"

"Fried chicken!"

"Mac and cheese!"

The walls close in as the echoes of three pint sized versions of their daddy reach the sound level of a jet plane taking off in the next room. The clock says seven oh nine. Is there any way to justify a martini at this hour?

"Listen up, kids. I'll do my best to accommodate your requests, but you have to speak softly. Very softly. One. At. A. Time."

There is immediate silence in the room. Three sets of gaping eyes roll heavenward in unison as though they have been practicing for this moment. Big sighs all around.

"Now. I'll point to one of you and you will then tell me what you want for breakfast. Then I'll point to the next one and then the next. Keep in mind, fellas, that I am not a Julia Child Wannabe and this is not a short order kitchen. You got that?"

They blink in sync.

"Who is Julie's child? Is she kin to us?"

"Forget about Julia. I don't want to be Miss Betty Crocker either. There now. I know you know who Betty C. is."

They give each other a blank look then cock their heads in my direction.

"Is she the one on the Weather Channel?"

"Oh for heaven's sake! You're making me want to eat a bottle of aspirin before my first cuppa. Martha Stewart, then. Everybody knows her!"

"She's in jail, Mammy."

Suddenly I have new found respect for the middle child, the normally quiet one. Up to this moment I thought the only thing he absorbed was Sponge Bob Squarepants.

"Martha Stewart is not in jail anymore, but even so, I still have no desire to emulate her. Now, what do you want for breakfast?"

"What's a emulate?"

"Just tell me what you want to eat, please. It's the crack of dawn and that headache is coming on strong."

Middle child closes his eyes and rolls his head back. "I'm thinking," he says, "that I would like to have blueberry pancakes with crème fraiche on top and some of those little chocolate twirly things. You know, Mammy, like Emeril decorates cakes with on the Food Network."

"Uh huh, and I'd like a new Jaguar to be parked in the garage by nine o'clock this morning. Get real, kid."

He clams up and starts thinking again.

I skip to the next one. "How about you, sweetie pie. What would you like Mammy to fix for you to eat?"

"Franco American Ravioli, please."

Was there a time warp? Is it the supper hour already? I look at my watch. Dream on, girl.

"We don't do ravioli before the sun is over the yard arm, dear. Think grits and eggs, okay?"

"Yuk."

I look at the last kid in line. "Okay, you. How about it? What do you have a taste for this morning?"

"I'd like to start off with a Mimosa in a chilled stemmed glass, please, Mammy. And then, perhaps some Eggs Benedict with fresh slices of mango and papaya on the side."

"You would, would you?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, if it's not too much trouble."

I pull open the pantry door and grab a box of Cheerios, a couple of bananas and plop them down on the table. I get three cereal bowls and spoons from the cupboard and set them down in front of my precious little Grandkids from Hell.

Smiling as brightly as the early hour ever allows me, I say, "Dig in, kids. There's more where that came from."