I hear the little footsteps picking up speed. I try to keep quiet while I pull out pots and pans which will be used for dinner. I’m quiet because I know what those little footsteps mean. It means dinner won’t be made in an hour, but closer to an hour and a half. It means there will be messes, and lots of measuring spoons and cups and water on the floor. It means I will hear, “I wanna do that!” and “Let me stir.” and lots of “Uh-oh, I didn’t mean to do that.” It’s inconvenient to have her “help” in the kitchen. And I feel terrible for saying it, but sometimes I’d rather do it myself because I just can’t stand to be bothered with that extra half hour and don’t even get me started on the mess.
But I am working on changing my ways. I have to trade in my wanting to be efficient and mess-free for treasured time with my little girl. Right now she wants to be with me, to “help” me. She chooses being with me in the kitchen over movies, dolls, and playing outside. Who knows how much longer this will last. Who cares if it takes longer, or I have a little more mess to clean up and more dishes to wash?
I guess I care. I care too much about that stuff, but I want to care a whole lot less about it. Because I know that one day, probably much sooner than I expect, she will want to be with her friends more than me. She will think she knows more about life than me. She’ll be texting me saying she won’t be home for dinner, which will be followed by me crying tears into my meatloaf, longing for the days when I had my little helper.
Oh geez…I need to get to the kitchen immediately. Time to bake something.
