Humor

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I stood hunched into a dark corner of the kitchen with my back to the room, mixing bowl tucked under my left arm, wooden spoon in my right hand. I stirred vigorously, yet silently, having perfected the art of mixing without producing the clanging sound of metal on metal.

I glanced at the recipe beside me, skimming over the list of ingredients and instructions. One cup of milk. Shoot, that would require me to leave my mixing bowl exposed while I flitted to the fridge. I stuck my head through the door leading to the basement. Little voices floated up; they seemed to be placated for the moment.

“It’s now or never,” I muttered, and glided to the fridge to fetch the milk. As I gingerly measured the liquid, the telltale patter of little feet sounded on the stairs. I froze, mentally calculating the seconds before it was all over.

Sure enough, “M-o-m” was shouted in a sing-song voice, making it sound like a two syllable word. Tommy exploded into the room, vociferating, “Whatchya doin’, Mom? Whatchya doin’?”

“Oh, not much,” I said in a resigned tone. At least I was on the last couple of ingredients.

“Hey, whatcha makin’? Can I stir? Hey Addie!” he yelled stridently. “Mom’s makin’ something and I get to stir fi-rst!”

“I wanna stir, I wanna stir!” a little voice whined from the basement. A moment later, Addy catapulted herself into the room, spoiling for an argument.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa… Hey! HEY!” I bellowed, trying to bring the room back under control. “Ok, Tommy was up here first, so he can stir the milk into the batter.” Chairs were dragged from the table to the counter in a frenzied fashion. Tommy hopped up and slopped the milk into the bowl, losing about ¼ cup in the process.

“Ah! Be careful!”

He tossed the measuring cup to the side, spattering the counter with droplets of milk. I watched, frozen in horror as he grasped the spoon as one grasps a popsicle stick, plunged it into the batter, and began gyrating it about.

“EE-, uh-, whoops, yikes, Tommy you have to stir gently!” I seemed to be reverting to cave man grunting communication. No matter, because my words were drowned out by the squawking of Tommy’s little sister who felt an injustice had been committed when he got to stir first.

“My turn, my turn!”

“Ok, Addie, here’s the spoon, and you have to stir slo-wly and gen-tly,” I intoned as she haphazardly grabbed the spoon.

“Hey, good job!” I praised her. The praise was premature, however, because in that instant she lost her footing and fell off the chair (from which she had been leaning at about 45 degrees).
“No, no, no, no!” I yelled desperately. I lunged toward Addie, managing to somewhat break her fall. Luckily, the bowl managed to stay up on the counter and only spilled a small amount of batter. My heart pounded like that of a mystery movie protagonist. Close call!
I righted the bowl and took stock of the damage. I knew Addie was alright because her bawling was that of the chainsaw-sounding fake kind.
“Mommy, Mommy, Look, Addie spilled some of the batter!” Tommy announced ear-splittingly. “Hey what’s this – can I – ,” I turned my head in time to see an egg sent to meet its maker.

“Ok kids, thank you, thank you SO much for helping Mommy in the kitchen! You were such big helpers! Now you get to go back downstairs and play,” I said in an upbeat, merry voice. “Won’t that be fun?”

Mercifully, the kids complied upon first request, and I sat down heavily at the kitchen table.

“Well, God?” I asked. “Are you trying to teach me something about myself? Like how it feels for you to carefully direct your child, guide her, and instruct her, only to see her splash, crack, and get spilled on? A great object lesson, but now I have to clean everything up! Maybe You could have taught me that lesson in a tidier way?!”

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