1m2aSandbox

Maddie and Cora both get monthly magazines – “Highlights” or “High 5” – that carry “easy” recipes kids can make. Every month the girls sit down with their magazines and devour them eagerly, arriving at the end of the magazine and oohing and aahing over whatever recipe’s been listed in there for that particular month: pumpkin bread pudding; corn chowder; watermelon pizza – you name it, the thing looks good to the girls, who both like to cook and who can clearly see themselves gracing the page of said magazine in the future, merrily waving a whisk or wielding a plastic knife.

Since school’s gotten out the girls have begun to dream big, and Cora’s written a list of foods she wants to make for the family at some point in the near future. The list is solely for me, so that I might purchase the necessary ingredients for her; Cora’s got the list memorized and the pages are well-thumbed.

When I peeled myself off the couch around 2:30, Maddie and Cora were explaining to Gamma how they wanted to have a restaurant featuring these magazine foods. In our front yard. In one hour. Apparently waitress uniforms had been coordinated, costumes picked for the post-meal entertainment, and more. They were all set.

I talked the girls down from DEFCON 4, negotiating our way down to a mere dinner they’d prepare that evening just for the family members.

As Cora ran to get her recipes, she said happily, “I’m so glad we get to do this! Now Mommy can rest and not have to cook a meal!”

Right.

We perused the available recipes and settled on a few the girls seemed most likely to eat: a berry yogurt parfait, blueberry muffins, and English muffin pizzas. A refined dinner, you must admit. I added a few ingredients to my already-in-progress grocery list and hit the store.

When I came home I was greeted by two subdued girls, eyes swollen from crying. The reason? They’d been fighting over who was going to do what with each recipe. When we finally negotiated that peace treaty (“Maddie, you can measure and pour the ingredients into the bowl for this one, and Cora will stir and open the oven door”) I was exhausted and starving.

But my job was not over.

I spent the next two hours helping while looking like I wasn’t helping, correcting measurements (“That’s ¾ of a cup, honey, not three to four cups!”), and wishing I could just make the @$#% dinner myself. When we finally sat down to eat I was exhausted.

We made our way through the dairy-rich meal (I haven’t had yogurt in YEARS and will surely pay for it today) and oohed and aahed at all the right places. The girls beamed, and Cora was so happy she kept scooching over to plant an extra kiss or give Brian’s hand a happy pat.

When dinner was over, the girls learned a hard truth about cooking: you have to clean up. I insisted they do most of the clean-up, since making it easy for them would just mean another repeat performance in the near future. I’m all for kids helping out, but they better help. Out.

So the girls walked away tired but happy, and after seeing the looks on their faces, I did, too. Definitely worth the exhaustion and dairy.

And then Cora said, “Hey, Maddie, let’s go plan another meal – and let’s do some hard recipes this time!”

Mayday. Mayday.