My mind is tired of replaying the rough stuff, so I’m digging for the bright spots — the ones that still make me smile. And those smiles almost always involve my kids. My mini wrecking crew. They taught me the hard way that I had not seen everything yet. Those two brilliant little minds created some truly “I can’t believe this just happened” moments.
They had chores — nothing serious, just little suggestions to help out. They loved helping so much they actually fought over who got to do what. Cooking was their favorite, mostly because I rarely let them help. The mess made me crazy. But sometimes I’d give in to my son’s logic: “If you don’t let us cook, how will we learn?” Whenever I surrendered, I made sure there was a frozen pizza on standby.
Avery, still deep in her E‑Z Bake Oven era, handled desserts. Whoever invented that thing clearly never tasted an E‑Z Bake cookie. I mastered the art of pretending to shove the whole thing in my mouth, fake chewing, and praising her while discreetly hiding the actual cookie. Ben was less subtle. He told her they looked like dog biscuits and refused to touch them. News flash: the dog wouldn’t eat them either.
And then there was Ben, acting far wiser than his years, “creating” dinner. He didn’t call it cooking — he called it whatever masterpiece he believed he was making. He’d watched enough cooking shows to be dangerous. He used words like “combining flavors” and “aroma.” He was nine.
He’d order his ingredients, and I’d pick them up. Chicken — harmless enough. Canned vegetables — mushy but safe. And a starch, because apparently a “proper meal” required one. I grabbed microwave rice in a bag. Five minutes, done. Big mistake. I got a lecture about carcinogens in plastic, microwaves being “only for snacks,” and the sodium content of premade foods. I just shook my head, stayed quiet, and watched to make sure he didn’t burn the kitchen down.
That night our “chicken” was enhanced with secret spices, grape jelly, ketchup, and slices of American cheese. The canned veggies were “transformed” with boiling water and orange juice for a “bold flavor.” His starch? Over‑boiled pasta with tomato paste because we didn’t have real sauce, so he improvised. Every time I tried to gently intervene, he hit me with a stern “I know what I’m doing, Mom.”
When he finished, he plated everything and served his sister, brother, and me. He asked why we hadn’t started eating yet, and I reminded him that the cook always takes the first bite.
He took a huge bite.
I took out the pizza.
Still standing, always with a pizza on standby,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 