I read the directions at least three times and have finally remembered at what temperature to preheat the oven.
His knight hat covers my recipe book and I turn to get too snippy about the stuff, the stuff is everywhere.
He has something up his sleeve or his knight shield or whatever you call the plastic thing he’s wearing on his chest.
I can tell by the click, click, click of his tongue.
The complications of Barbie dressing and undressing and fitting her into a firetruck are debated in the next room and I understand the lightbulb over his head.
It’s just us.
Looking at him with both eyes, the way I should have all day, I use my cooking voice. I’m Julia Childs or Racheal Ray or Dora.
I give him the dough to flip and remind myself that four year-olds don’t care what is pre-made.
His belly giggles as I do my best dive to save his four year-old throw. We slide and flip until the floor catches some of our dinner. He stops to see if our spill is okay. I answer him with tickles.
The sword of a knight knows how to pull dough from the floor.
Barbie, the fire truck and their carriers come flying towards our noise.
The oven beeps but the laughter is louder.
Do you have a hard time staying “present” each day? How do you keep your eyes open to what is in front of you?
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