There are the memories of helping my mother bake. The best thing about that of course, was licking the beaters and the bowl. She’d sit me up on the counter and my job, which my mother told me was exceptionally important, was to sift the flour and sugar. Occasionally, I could beat the eggs if the recipe called for it. Was I special or what? Good thing mom had me around, because, you know, she would have never been able to pull the baking off without me. How do I know that? Because she told me so. All the time.

I try to remember those memories, and what role my mother played in making them, as both of my children love to help me in the kitchen. I think to myself, “can’t you just go watch TV for a little bit?” I moan inwardly as I realize that my tasks will take me three times the amount of time to do with the little helpers, than if I had it to do on my own. But I look down at those eager little brown eyes that sweep me into their depth every time. And I melt.

Up on the counter they go and I dutifully hand out different tasks. Chickie is now getting big enough that she can (hold me) stir things on the stove. Midget is learning to crack eggs, and now can do it without leaving half of the shell in the bowl.

I find myself moving between them, comfortable with the way things are working. Listening to the incessant chatter between them, responding only when required, savoring the moments, and gathering memories.

What I thought was going to be a trial, turned out to be something that I can cherish for a long time to come.

Chickie: It’s a good thing we are helping Mommy out Midget.

Migdget: Yeah, Mommy wouldn’t have had the time to do all of this stuff if we weren’t here.

Chickie: I can’t believe you cracked two whole eggs without dropping any of the shells!

Midget: Yeah, I’m the best egg cracker.

Chickie: I’m the best stirrer.

How do my children know that, you ask? Because their Mommy tells them so. All the time.