It’s the day after Thanksgiving. I’m in the kitchen with Matthew, who is standing on a chair at the counter helping me make gingersnaps. The first holiday baking of the year! I’m loving it.
We stand there, side by side, taking turns measuring the ingredients and dumping them in the bowl. I pause frequently to breathe in the glorious smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and ground cloves. On the stereo is an album of Doris Day singing Christmas carols, songs that are as comforting as cocoa on a cold night.
In my life as a mom, I don’t often have moments where I stop and think: I’m living a Norman Rockwell painting. My life is usually too frenetic, messy, or disorganized for that. But as Matthew and I stand in the kitchen breaking off pieces of dough to shape into gingersnaps, I feel as though I’ve walked into some cozy domestic fantasy, where everything is storybook perfect.
Then Matthew pauses and holds up a piece of brown dough he’s been rolling between his hands. “Look, Mommy!” he laughs. “It looks just like poo!”
Perfection is overrated … and very, very brief.
Image courtesy of Karen’s Whimsy.