I woke up Saturday morning and knew that I was in trouble. I needed to pitch an article to my editor as soon as possible, since my deadline was Tuesday. Frustrated and suffering from a massive case of writer’s block, I went to the kitchen to have breakfast with my family. In between bites of a Cuban pastry, my father asked me what my plan for the weekend was. I lamented to my dad that I had to write an article for HerCampus, and I had no idea what to write about. Both my parents and my sister started chiming in with ideas on what I could write about; some of which were good, but most I waved off as boring.
And then it hit me: why don’t I just write about my breakfast experience in the first place? This breakfast wasn’t a rare occurrence. Every weekend without fail, my family and I have breakfast together in the morning. Whether it’s at 8 a.m. or 1 p.m., you can always count on the Rodriguez clan to come together and enjoy a meal. The meals vary from eggs and bacon to Cuban pastries to muffins and waffles, but it’s never about the food. Saturday and Sunday mornings are a time for my family and I to catch up on the week’s events, as well as what’s coming up in the next week.
And quite honestly, I didn’t think this family time was uncommon. Growing up, I just assumed that everyone’s family got together and shared a meal in harmony. But when I would tell my friends that I couldn’t have brunch with them on Sunday morning, or that I was upset that I would miss breakfast at home because of a sleepover, they were shocked. “You really have breakfast together every weekend?” “Of course! Why? Is that weird?”
This is a tradition that I want to pass onto my children. It has shaped me into being someone who puts family first, and who doesn’t see the harm in open communication with my parents. And I wouldn’t change that for anything.