Lucy and Alice have discovered their individuality lately. They're reveling in it, but it's killing me.

It started with the observation that Lucy has curly brown hair and brown eyes, while Alice has straight blonde hair with blue eyes. That was proof enough for the girls that they cannot--indeed they must not--like the same things. It's their destiny, as written in their genes.

Now, Lucy won't wear dresses and Alice won't wear pants. And Lucy wants me to read a graphic novel as a bedtime story, while Alice wants a picture book. Lucy says no to fish, while Alice says yes to it.

It's like living with Donny and Marie, only instead of a little bit country and a little bit rock'n'roll, which are merely two different kinds of music that could be satisfied with one Lynyrd Skynyrd album, I'm stuck trying to negotiate a truce between the elementary school equivalent of Israel and Palestine, or clowns and mimes if you find the inclusion of an actual war to be in poor taste.

It's one thing to say you really value individuality, and another thing entirely to face it. Especially at the breakfast table.

Here, Lucy wants waffles. Alice wants pancakes. And while these things sound Donny and Marie-ish—just swap a muffin for Lynrd Skynrd!—they're not.

The distance between a pancake and a waffle is vast and mysterious. If you don't believe me, try putting pancake batter in a waffle iron. It will stick like nobody's business. I think this is because waffle irons are angry at the way we've taken the word "waffle" and made it mean indecisive. Just because a waffle is squares within a circle doesn't mean it can't make up its mind. At least I don't think that's what it means. I guess I don't really know. Hmm. I could go back and forth for hours thinking about this...

In any case, I was amazed to learn that there is a new pan on the market that does something miraculous. It makes things that are half waffle, half pancake and entirely delicious. The bottom half, shaped by the pan, look like waffles. You don't flip them, so the top half comes out flat. Flat as a pancake, you might say.

We haven't decided whether to call them paffles or wancakes, but the proper name will come with time, I am sure. I'm just relieved Lucy and Alice haven't figured out they could fight over what to call them.
Meanwhile, I've made many batches of pafflecakes and they are a hit. Nobody cries or says uncalled-for dramatic things when I put fresh ones on the table. And I would say that perhaps the Breakfast War has come to an end, except for one thing.

The last time I took out the pan, Alice said, "These are good, mom. But next time, I want you to cook the pancake side down."

It's physically impossible to do this. But that sort of thing won't stop my kids from exercising their individuality. Up! No, down! No, up! It's enough to make me want to listen to some Lynrd Skynrd, really loud.

(Martha is on vacation this week, so this is an encore of a previously published post.)