I blame Eloise but Mary and Kate are far too familiar with the dialing of room service. Our morning hotel routine generally goes like this: Mary and Kate awake, later than usual thanks (yes, thank you) to the hotel black out drapes, they then climb into our bed and get to watch cartoons. This is huge because at home, there are no cartoons, save for the occasional Postman Pat (no longer available stateside thanks to HBO), and no telly in a room with a bed. A huge boom for us also as we are then able to lounge in bed, half awake, for a bit longer, pretending that this is really a relaxing time away. After 30 minutes of Sesame Street or Curious George, Kate is ready to trade in George for this guy:
Please call room service, please, I am hungry. And ring them we do, another round of Babar, and there is a knock at the door. Kate loves breakfast, in general she is a very good eater, but breakfast is her shining moment. Eggs! Fruit! Eee Gads, a cinnamon roll! Hotel mornings are a very happy time for all of us, save the times we travel with Eleanor who is not happy until someone (and that is me) pulls on some clothes and wanders downstairs with her, outside downstairs to be clear.
Recently we did the hotel hallway sit with the uncles and skipped the room service breakfast in lieu of brunching with them. On the walk over Kate shared her interpretation of the morning: I waited and waited but room service never came. Uncle Kenny, I was DYING for room service. This resulted in about four calls from Uncle Kenny the following week, trying like mad to remember what she said.