My children never ask me to pour syrup for them. If they need help, they ask for Dad. If Dad�s not around, they figure the mess they might make will dwarf what I�d do. Even a three year old does better with syrup than I do.

I don�t understand exactly what happens but when I use syrup, everything around me ends up sticky. Years ago, I met some on-line friends for the first time in Denver. We went out to breakfast and I made the mistake of ordering french toast�with syrup. It went from the plate to the knife to the table to my hands to my arms. Someone at the table took one look at me and said, �I�m not missing my children right now.� Bev offered practical advice. As I raised my arms and slid out of the booth, she ordered, �DON�T TOUCH ANYTHING!�

There have been times when I�ve sat down to a lunch of pancakes and had to take the second shower of the day�and include a hair wash. I�ve sat down at a table where people have had syrup days ago and put my arm in the only syrup spot their multiple attempts at washing have missed.

I think of myself as the Queen of Syrup. I drip with importance. I�m a really sweet monarch and I even have an amber tiara�although perhaps the color comes merely from the syrup all over it.

Once, my friend Mary tried to wrestle my crown away. But her syrup problem was a one-time thing and she was only able to create the situation by giving a restaurant syrup container to her two-year-old. I don�t have to stoop to using toddlers to create my sticky messes. I proudly create them for myself.

I have to admit that pouring syrup down the window well of a minivan was impressive. I may have real competition when that kid grows up. Until then, my crown is safe. After all, it�s stuck to my head.

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