My father called me one evening last week, a little while after the kids had gone to bed, to warn me of something he had done that *could, potentially, perhaps, most likely, but maybe not* cause a problem. It was something he thought that I should know about so I could be on lookout for trouble …
Yeah, neither did I.
What could possibly be WORSE than teaching a then-three-year-old to open the refrigerator by herself? … Or swing down the staircase one step at a time holding on to the handrail? … Or to unlatch her own seatbelt? What could be worse than realizing she’d dialed Guam instead of Gram when the phone bill arrives?
PAPA: “Well, I let her use a sharp knife to cut carrots and strawberries. …
Then there was a pause …
PAPA: “By herself. … But I told her she’s NOT to try it without mom or dad watching.”
ME: “Oh … I’m not worried,” I lied, thinking immediately of the scar I’d gotten while trying to cut apples when I was seven – two years older than Ittybit.
PAPA: “She was so pleased with herself.”
I was thinking of this little exchange Sunday evening as we were returning home from the second of two weekend parties for newly five-year-old friends.
ME: “I have a great idea!” I said with the borrowed enthusiasm of a game-show host. “Why don’t YOU make dinner tonight?”
I’m guessing now the lack of response was the disbelief that some unmentioned DREAM was FINALLY coming true, because when we got home she went straight to work …
Assembling leftovers from the refrigerator into one of the most artful (not to mention tasty) meals ever served in our home.
And then, while I was putting Silas to sleep, she decided to tackle dessert: “Sliced Strawberries on Oreos.”
Yet, because I wasn’t watching, the knife she used to slice the strawberries was of the butter variety.
Now I know I’m biased, but I don't think you can blame me for thinking she really is the best.