Standing on a Sunday morning on a wooden chair in the kitchen, your bare feet pumping up and down as you excitedly go up on tip toe. Your eager high pitched voice, saying "Mommy, we're making waffles!" as I carefully avoid knocking over the dozens of individually packaged apple sauces from their storing place as I pull down the red Aunt Jemima box from the cabinet above our heads.
"What do we do first?" I ask, sure you will know the answer.
"Wash our hands!" you recite, happily reaching for the faucet as I guide your chair to a more manageable distance from the sink (several instances of cleaning a wet floor have led me to this decision)
"Very good," I say, pumping the silver soap dispenser, and placing the shiny clear gel into your hands.
"Rub rub rub," we say in unison, as we work the soap through our fingers. The sun is starting to peek through the clouds, and pour in through the window, hitting the bamboo plant and the orchidless orchid on its way to highlight the bubbles we're forming.
"Now rinse," I instruct, as you reach your hands- which can barely stretch to the pouring water- into the the stream.
I grab for the paper towels as I count down, knowing that if you leave your hands under the water for too long, you'll become fixated on keeping them in there, and it will be a battle to get you to separate from it. You have a stubborn streak and then some. "3...2...(towel in hand)...1- Off!"
On "off" you reach with all your might, your little feet straining to push yourself to reach the silver handle and turn it straight up.
"I did it!" you say, as I hand you the towel and you dry yourself off. I'm still in awe that you are growing up so fast, that the little person, who I used to balance on the counter/my hip while you squirmed away from the water (or reached and tried to douse yourself, depending on your mood) is now standing before, drying her hands like a little lady straight out of an Emily Post instructional.
"Yes you did! Now, let's measure the mix." I pull your chair away from the sink now, positioning you in front of the open counter space, where the box, an egg, and the milk sit next to a measuring cup and a spoon.
You dutifully pick up the silver measuring cup, your hands both clasped around the black wooden handle, holding it at enough of an angle that I have to straighten it out with one hand, as I pour the powder with the other. We spill a bit, dusting the speckled granite with white powder, before you dump the rest of the contents into the plastic tupperware bowl.
"Excellent job, my little chef" I smile, and you beam with pride. "Now the milk," and again, you repeat holding the cup while I dispense the ingredient into it with careful precision, delighting in the milk-fall you create as you pour it into the bowl.
"Now the eggy!" you say, and I think of how cute it is, this toddler language of yours involving "eggys" and "ogum" (yogurt) and other such things. I pick up the cage-free hen egg, and you ask, wonder in your voice, "Is it from Aunty Coley's farm?"
I answer honestly, "No, it's from a different chicken. But we'll get eggies from Aunty Coley next time she comes to visit, how's that?"
You're not really phased by this, just nodding your head, yes, that's a good idea, and placing your hands over mine while I crack it on the side of the bowl. Your hands are so tiny still, chubby with youth and perfectly formed, better filled out miniatures of my own. I can feel you pulling on my knuckles as I separate the shell from the yolk and white, and they drop into the bowl with a plop!
"Mommy, I want to stir," you declare, picking up the spoon and sticking it directly into the egg yolk, so that the yellow spills out and begins to infiltrate the rest of the batter.
"Hit the road Jack, and don't you come back no more no more no more no more," you sing, echoing one of the songs your daddy's band was playing the day before at rehearsal.
"Hit the road, Jack, and don't you come back no more," I respond, picking up the oil and pouring two tablespoons full into the batter to ensure that it doesn't stick to the waffle iron.
You move the spoon in rhythm with the song, making rotations in the bowl as you merge dry with liquid until everything is coagulating into a lumpy mush.
"Mommy, I'm done," you state proudly, handing me the spoon, and then immediately setting about to make designs in the spilled powder still on the counter. I briefly flash to finger painting, and wonder where I could put an easel for you, to encourage your artistic desire to use multi media (Pancake mix! Paints! Dog hair!) and think of the museums you could display your work in.
I turn back to our concoction, stirring it a couple of times for good measure (careful to do this so you can't see, lest you think I'm belittling your work), and open the steaming waffle iron to pour in the mix. It emits a hiss as it hits the black grates, weaving its way over the edges like water spilling out of a canal.
I close the top, watching briefly as steam escapes out the sides, and begin the autopilot clean up of throwing out the egg shells and placing the cooking supplies in the dishwasher (along with last night's dinner dishes).
As I finish clearing the counter, you grow tired of your latest artistic endeavor, offering "You can lift me down now, please."
I oblige, placing you on the floor as you take off running for the train set in the other room. I pick up a sponge, and wipe your expressionist batter work into the farmhouse sink (giving a quick thought of thanks to the previous owner of our house for having the foresight to install such a fantastic, undermount, easy to clean vessel into her kitchen). I then commence wiping down the rest of the countertops, removing anything stuck on with swift circles of the grainy side of the sponge, and enjoying the relative quiet in the early morning.
The orange light turns off on the waffle iron, and I carefully remove the waffles with a fork, liberating them from the grate's grasp and immediately placing them on a plate for dissection. I call out, "Riley, do you want me to cut your waffles?"
Your response is an emphatic "Into rectangles, please!", and I set about to do this with surgical precision. I open the refrigerator door and place the freshly diced meal on the bottom shelf, knowing you don't like things too hot, and call you to the table.
You sprint in, sliding a bit on the floor, and pull yourself up onto the chair, literally, with your hands gripping it tightly as you use the decorative wooden pieces as footholds.
I retrieve your waffles, and my own, and pour the syrup onto your plate, careful to avoid touching the waffles, so that you can dip them as you wish.
Your smile as I place your in front of you, saying "Thank-you mommy!" I watch your eyes light up as you pick up a rectangle with your fork, dip it delicately in syrup, and then move it to your mouth, dripping shiny brown droplets onto your red nightgown. "Mmm... these are delicious," you manage through a mouth full of food.
"Yes, angel," I smile, picking up my own fork. "You did an fabulous job of making them."
I hope you remember this- the morning spent, just you and me, cooking breakfast together before all the "to dos" on my to do list come crushing down on me, and I have to push some of them to the top of my priority list. I hope you remember that I spend these mornings, like my mom did with me, making you giggle, and instilling pride in your and your abilities. I hope this makes up for all the mornings when I'm at work and I can't help you make breakfast because I'm already in the middle of teaching someone else's children to be confident, and proud, and free-thinking. I hope you grow up loving waffle mornings as much as I did, and knowing how much you are loved.
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