So Steve and I are flipping pancakes in the kitchen. He sits on his usual place on the kitchen counter, ‘helping’ me out.
He pours batter out from a squeezy bottle, oooohs and aaaahs as bubbles appear on the surface of the pancakes as they cook. And then when it is ready to flip em, he takes a spatula and gives it his best shot, and fails each time.
The pancakes always fall to the side of the pan. Never in the middle. Bummer.
And he keeps getting more frustrated with each side flip. By the 4th pancake he’s had enough .
“Awww, that’s ok“,I say. “When I was your age, I couldn’t do it either.”
He looks at me a little doubtful.
“You too? Then what did you do?“, he asks suspiciously not entirely sure I am not making this up.
“Then my Amma told me that it was OK, and I practiced a lot. And finally I got it right.”, I say.
By now his eyes are shining.
“Really Amma?”, he asks hopefully. A smile spreads on his face. The smile reserved for promised Santa visits, trips to the zoo and yellow M&Ms.
I look at him. And I think to myself, no Stevie. Back in the day if I had ever expressed an interest in helping out in the kitchen, my Mom would have shooed me out so quick. If I ever uttered the word ‘bored’ and climbed on the kitchen counter like you did, well kiddo let’s just say we kids weren’t given that liberty.
We kids stayed out of our mother’s hair, and played with our dolls and fought with our siblings. And that was that. She was a wonderful mom, but even great moms had their limitations.
But I look at his smile and I tell him ” Yes bubs.” And I kiss the top of his head.