Gooey's Good

Day 282

My kids and I share a love of baking.  OK.  Confession time.  We share a love of eating: baking is how we get our fix. 

As willing assistants, the boys crack eggs, stir chocolate chips into batter and roll cookie dough like the seasoned professionals they are.  Watching them, I forget that not all kids grow up with a whisk in their hand.  

“Have you ever cracked an egg?” I ask Rachel, a sweet, sweet kindergarten girl who stands beside me in our kitchen.  “No?  Oh, this is going to be fun!” 

Her eyes widen at my suggestion that she crack two eggs into a clear, shallow bowl. 

“Break them?” she asks tentatively. 

“Break ‘em wide open,” A. instructs.  For as bull-in-a-china-shop as my youngest is, he’s unnaturally adept at cracking eggs without getting shells in the batter.

Rachel shakes her head side-to-side.  “I don’t want to.  It sounds messy.” 

“We love messy!  Right?”  A. nods his head in agreement.  Messy is our motto.  We worry about cleanup after the cookies cool. 

“How about if we take it slow?  Break it down, if you will.”  Rachel looks unconvinced as I laugh at my own funny. 

I hand her and A. both an egg.  “Take your egg,” I hold mine up to demonstrate, “and tap it lightly on the counter.” 

“Then,” A. jumps in, “you stick your little fingers in the crack, pull it apart and drop the egg in the bowl.”

“Gently,” I add. 

“Gently,” he repeats. 

Rachel taps her egg. 

“A little harder,” I encourage.  Her egg remains perfectly intact.  “Just a little.”  

She taps again, this time splintering the shell and creating a web of delicate lines. 

“Use your fingers and gently pull the shell apart.”  I move the bowl beneath her hands to

allow the yolk and white to slip through her fingerss and drop into the glass. 

“You did it!” I cheer. 

She stares from the bowl to her fingers to the remains of the shell, unsure of what just transpired.  “My hands are all gooey,” she smiles. 

“Gooey’s good,” A. assures.  For boys, it’s a catch-all answer. 

Taking the time to teach a child something new is a wonderful act of kindness.  How else can they learn if we don’t show them?  If you’re wondering, that goes for lots of things besides cracking eggs.   

I Won't Say I Know

Day 281

Looking at my life, I know I have it pretty good.  Great kids.  Supportive husband.  Nice house.  Loyal friends.  For us, life seems to get better with each passing year. 

My brother and I have shared several conversations recently about the state of the economy.  I hear him but admit in my insulated bubble I don’t feel the pinch.  It’s hard to understand the depth and devastation of long-term unemployment, living without health insurance or losing a home unless it happens to you. 

I’m thinking of all these things as I return from a trip to Over-the-Rhine to drop off boxes of toothpaste, laundry detergent and bath towels as part of a school collection for the Make a Difference committee that I co-chair. 

Looking down Vine Street, it’s hard not to see in very concrete terms how a bad economy continues to effect the quality of life for so many in our community.    

I won’t insult anyone by claiming I understand how it feels, because I don’t.  What I will do is appreciate what I have and not take it for granted.  

New Friend

Day 280

I’m at the school for a committee meeting and realize it’s nearly lunchtime so decide to sneak down to the cafeteria to say hello to the boys.  I’m glad to see the first graders since A. is the only one thrilled to see me at school these days.

His face breaks into a smile when I approach the long cafeteria table.  He scoots over to make room.  I slip my legs over the bench and slide in next to him. 

I like to think I know all my kids’ friends but don’t recognize the blond sitting directly beside him. 

“Hi!” I say.  “What’s your name?” 

A. jumps in to answer before the boy responds. 

“He’s new.  First day.  Told him to sit next to me at lunch.”  Mr. Business. 

“That was really nice,” I smile.  “And play at lunch recess, too?” 

A. nods his head enthusiastically to indicate “duh, of course.” 

I sit and talk for a few minutes until the monitors indicate that everyone needs to clear out for the next grade arriving for lunch.  “Have fun!” I say to the new boy before leaning in and whispering into A.’s ear, “I’m very proud of you.”  He grins his toothless grin and skips out to join his new friend at recess. 

The first graders gone, the fourth graders file in.  

“He’s over there!” my oldest’s friends yell and point to a long table on the far end of the lunchroom.  I spy him just as he makes a show of ducking beneath the tabletop.    

I have one simple request.  If you see me at school helping out and I wave, have the courtesy to acknowledge me and wave back.  If you don’t (because mom is too uncool for school) there will be consequences.

I hide behind one of a half dozen columns and wait.  And wait.  

He thinks he’s in the clear.  He goes wide.  Then I attack.

I jump from behind the column, wave crazy jazz hands, and let out a “Booga, Booga!”  I. nearly drops his lunch tray.  His friends roll with laughter. 

Even if he won’t admit it, he loves the attention, smiles and rolls his eyes.  I can tell he’s pleased.   

I stride the two steps towards him, wrap my arms around him and shower him with kisses in a I-am-way-too-old-for-this-and-my-mom-is-trying-to-ruin-my-life way.  He attempts to wiggle away but with my arms around him and his arms around his tray, he’s trapped.  

I give him one last smooch and release my grip.  He joins his friends and runs to recess.    

I know.  Embarrassing your kids at school doesn’t qualify as kind, but gosh it’s fun.