I attempted to do some stay-at-home, blogworthy, Norman Rockwell-esque family fun this afternoon.
I must’ve still been high on the felt-leaf Fall banner that the 3-year-old and I made yesterday and strung across the livingroom. [I say this lightly as he spent most of the time using the string to bind all of our kitchen table chairs together.]
And so, while Kate was finishing her nap and the baby was sleeping soundly in her bouncer, I thought I’d pull my 3-year-old monkey away from Toy Story 2 and attempt to make shortbread cookies. The weather was crisp outside. I had just received the holiday Pottery Barn magazine in the mail. I was feeling matriarchal.
Of course, I always have an idea in my head of how these things are going to go: smiling child. Matching aprons. A bit of flour dust on our noses. Picture-perfect. But then, as it always does, reality taps me on the shoulder.
Or really, spits up on my shoulder.
Because at the moment I got the half-kneaded shortbread dough in the mixer, my baby woke up screaming and vomited on me. Kate woke up from her nap. And “mommy’s little helper” broke into an all-out fit because he couldn’t see the dough well enough. The fit led to time-out which led to him “having an accident”on his floor, which led to me stepping in pee, which led to the baby crying more, which led to Kate’s healthy snack being some snack cookies dumped out of the package and onto her highchair tray.
But what I remember in moments like this is this:
Tomorrow, he will remember us making these cookies and forget the pee, the timeout, the throw-up. He will look at me lovingly, beaming from ear to ear and say, “Remember when we made cookies yesterday, Mommy?”
“Yes, baby. I do.”
“That was the best,” he will say.
Because the gift of childhood is the same as the gift of mommyhood — though the moments may come with stresses, the memories only hold onto the magic.