Payday blues & one last egg: How muffins saved my morning
In her column, Tracy shares experiences and lessons learnt as she navigates life and grows with her two boys. To share your views email Tracy on [email protected]
Image: File
This weekend humbled me in the quietest way.
It was one of those pre-payday mornings where you’re mentally calculating everything before your feet even hit the floor. The kids, of course, were up at sunrise. During the week, I practically beg them to wake up. On a Saturday? They’re fully alert, hungry, and ready for breakfast before I’ve had a sip of coffee.
I had promised French toast. Nothing fancy just something warm and fun. Maybe a sprinkle of sugar or a little tomato sauce on the side so they could choose. It felt like a small treat without stretching the budget. Then I checked the bread bin. Empty.
Dad had taken the last slices to work.
No problem, I thought. We still have eggs. I opened the fridge. One egg. Just one.
I turned to my eldest and explained that we might have to change the plan. His little face crumpled in confusion.
“But Mommy, you said…”
There’s something about those words that pierce straight through you.
My babies loved the improve session we had
Image: Dad
I tried to explain that there was no more bread. That we were almost out of eggs too. He listened carefully, then asked the most innocent question: “But Mommy, why can’t we just go to the shop and buy eggs?”
And there it was.
That gentle tug between wanting to give them everything and knowing that payday is still a few days away. Knowing there’s milk still needed for the baby. Knowing that as a parent, you always try to keep a little something back for emergencies.
I tried explaining in simple terms. He didn’t really understand. And honestly, why should he? He’s a child. His world is simple. If something runs out, you just buy more.
But the world doesn’t always work that way.
So instead of over-explaining or letting the moment feel heavy, I looked around the cupboard for another option. And there it was a packet of muffin mix. It needed one egg.
We had one egg.
I suggested we make muffins instead. His disappointment faded almost instantly. Suddenly, breakfast wasn’t about what we didn’t have, it was about what we could make.
He became chief stirrer. His baby brother stood on a chair, proudly helping pour in the wet ingredients. There was flour on the counter, batter on small fingers, and the kind of laughter that fills a kitchen in the best way.
And just like that, the weight I had been carrying in my head lifted.
They didn’t need a full explanation about budgets or responsibilities. They didn’t need to understand why we couldn’t “just go to the shop.” They just needed a solution they could be part of.
When the muffins came out of the oven, warm and golden, you would have thought we had planned it all along. They were proud. They had helped. It felt special not because it was extravagant, but because it was ours.
That morning reminded me of something important: I overthink far more than they do.
Children don’t measure love in perfectly executed breakfasts or fully stocked fridges. They measure it in moments, in being included. In stirring the bowl and licking the spoon.
This weekend didn’t teach me that I need to have more. It taught me that sometimes what we already have is enough. One egg. A packet of mix. Two eager helpers. Payday will come.
But that morning that messy, improvised, muffin-filled morning was already rich in all the ways that matter.