Our kids sometimes “help” in the kitchen. While they prefer to chop carrots or dump spaghetti into a pot of boiling water, I usually insist they do tasks that are less likely to fast-track us to the surgical ward.
Some chores they initiate on their own. Vivian has surprised us by unpacking the dishwasher, though the clinking and clanging provide some subtle clues as to what she’s up to.
After repeated threats, they will also clear the table, a task that looks like an illustration from Dr. Seuss and one that has resulted in more than a few broken dishes. “No worries,” I say, “the floor needs vacuuming anyway.” Because it does.
The other night, William was desperate to help cook. When I insisted he set the table, he muttered. I continued defrosting the frozen chili, which thaws only slightly faster than the polar ice caps.
While I was calculating the Defrost Equation on the microwave for the fourth time, I heard grating noises. I looked over to William, and my gaze soon lowered. I said this:
Yes, my beloved helper was practicing his soccer skills by pushing the plates along our tile floor with his stinky socks. The table was the goal line.
What did I do? Not much. I pressed “start” on the microwave, watched William finish setting the table, and recorded this phrase in my notebook.
Happy Whiteboard Wednesday.