In an effort to continue full disclosure...

I present Stellar Mothering Moment 2 (in an unending series)

I realize that either I’m not a great mother, I don’t like my kids or I’m just plain not nice. This is why:

I hate having the kids help me in the kitchen. It’s true. Yes, I know all the books say it’s an incredible teaching moment and that I should be embracing the fact that they want to help me work. My mind knows I should be eager to teach them how many teaspoons are in a tablespoon (3) or use them as cheap manual labour for stirring messy concoctions. But honestly. Have you ever seen a kid in the kitchen?

Their hands are nasty. Even when they wash them, I turn to the sink and turn back and they have fingers in noses, mouths or eyes and expect to keep helping. Uck. They want to lick everything that’s not nailed down. Bowls, spatulas, spoons, countertops... even moving beaters and knives. Part of me wants to see what’ll happen when they stick their tongues into a moving wire whip. But that’s fodder for "stellar mothering moment number 3". And don’t get me started about the mysterious crunchy eggshell bits in the finished product accidentally dropped into the food by the elusive "Not Me". Grrrr...

So when they ask the bright-eyed, excited question: "Can I help you bake mummy?" and I give my typical answer of "You can help me by going downstairs to watch a movie. I’ll call you when the **insert delicious baked goods here** are ready" know that I’m filing it in my Stellar Mothering Moments file.

kxx (Oh, and remember the Violent Femmes incident? That was Stellar Mothering Moment Number 1)