Letting Go

I am not too much of a control freak. . . except when it comes to baking.  Whenever I start pulling out my ingredients, the Curly Girlies all eagerly ask, "Can I help?" and I inwardly sigh and think, "Ugh. . . what a mess."

Usually, their helping consists of them supervising me (read: sitting on a chair in the kitchen, but having their eyes trained on the TV in the family room) and being my taste testers.  It's always worked out wonderfully for me, because baking really isn't a 2 (or 4) person job and it's a form of relaxation for me.  I can't relax if I'm worried someone is going to spill flour, knock over the vanilla extract or drop an egg.

One of B's friends is sick and B asked to bake cookies for him.

"Sure," I said.  "I'll bake him some cookies."

"No," replied B firmly.  "Not you.  Me.  I want to bake them."

"Uh. . .," I said, unsure of what to say.

"Please??," she begged.  "I really want too.  I won't make a mess and you can supervise me.  Please??"

"You know what?  I think that's a great idea.  Yes, you can bake the cookies," I replied.  "You will do everything but the oven part.  That includes cleaning up."

"Oh, thank you Mommy!," B exclaimed gleefully, running to give me a hug.  "Best mom ever!"

I needed a day to psych myself up, so this morning, when B came bounding in to our room bright and early asking if she could bake, I told her "Sure!  Grab the recipe and start taking out ingredients."

She needed a little help finding the recipe, but after that, she was on her own.  I'm not sure of whom I'm more proud:  B for doing the majority of the process by herself or me for not flipping out when she spilled flour on the counter and sugar on the floor.

After the dough was mixed and put in the fridge to chill, B took off her apron and went to sit down in the family room.

"Oh, ho, no!, I said.  "The rule is if you bake, you clean.  Go to town."

"Can you help me?," she asked with a pout.

"Absolutely not," I answered, sternly.  "You wanted to bake, you have to clean.  It's as simple as that."

"OK," she huffed, walking back into the kitchen.

My child who managed to bake cookies by herself became an incompetent fool when it came to cleaning.  She's cleaned for me before, in fact sometimes she'll wash dishes by hand because she says finds it fun.

"B, make sure you clean the paddle," I reminded her.

"What's the paddle?," she asked, gathering up the cups and spoons.

"You know?  The thing that was on the mixer?," I answered.

"This?," she asked, picking up the plate that the scraper had been resting on.

I just stared at her.

"Does that look like it was on the mixer?," I asked without even hiding my annoyance.

"Oh!  I'm sorry!  I didn't know!," came her reply.

She finally found the paddle and started washing.  I noticed she picked up a measuring cup, looked at it and put it in the drain rack.

"B!  If it was used it has to be cleaned, even if it looks clean," I admonished.  "You wanted to bake, well, cleaning is part of that."

After she washed everything, I told her to clean off the counters.  She took a wet paper towel and started swiping it haphazardly around the counter.

"No, no, no," I explained, guiding her hand.  "You cup your hand so you can sweep the crumbs into it."

"Ohhh," she exaggerated.

"Is that how you were going to do it?," I asked, thinking maybe I stepped in too soon.

"No, I was just going to wipe them onto the floor," she answered honestly.

All I could do was laugh.

Later, she scooped the dough into balls and put them on the baking sheets.  She did it much differently than I would have, but I kept my mouth shut, because really in the end, they still come out the same.

After all the cookies were scooped, I took a spoon and scraped up some of the remnants from the bowl.

"Here, taste this," I suggested.  "Every baker gets a taste of the dough."

"Really?," she beamed, grabbing the spoon. "Mmm. . . These are delectable!  My friend is going to love them!"

"Did you have fun?," I questioned, while taking a bite of her cookie.

"Yes!," she exclaimed.

"Would you want to do it again?," I asked.

"Yes!," she exclaimed again.

"Even the cleaning?"

"Well. . . ," she answered, stuffing the rest of her cookie in her mouth and walking away.

Watching her today made me really see B for the preteen she is now, not the baby I see every time I catch a glimpse of her in my eye.  The days are long, but the years are short and today proved that perfectly.