Still Dark Out

In awe of the number of things on the day-before-Thanksgiving to-do list, I popped wide awake when it was still dark out and before dressing, before even so much as brushing my teeth I made my way to the kitchen to start in on the cooking.

I’d hoped to get a chunk of work done by the time any of the children awoke and for a half-hour I had my wish. It was silent but for the wonky chop of my knife and the sizzle of sausage on the flame. Sooner than I wished little feet hit the floor above me. Maybe he won’t realize I’m down here, I thought, envisioning his little face peering over the edge of the stove directly in the line of splatter.

Almost immediately he tracked me down. Wiggling his little behind up on one of the kitchen stools he demanded breakfast. So infrequently do I get to see him out of his sisters’ shadows that I offered to cook him whatever he wanted. “Do you want toast? Eggs? Pancakes?” I asked.

“Cereal,” he said, “I pick it out.” He carried everything back to his place at the counter then promptly ignored it all, instead requesting bits of whatever I was cooking. Sausage for the stuffing? He had to have some. Kernels of barely thawed corn? What a treat! Raw cranberries? Despite my cautions he tried even this, spitting it out when he realized that the shiny red orbs were not, as he so fervently hoped, candy. Finally his tummy could hold no more yummy nibbles. As much as I enjoyed the time alone with him I was not sad to see him wander off toward his pile of toys. With his sisters still in bed I hoped to get a few more things done before the day fully broke.

It was not to be. Toy in hand he reappeared at the counter and began a close interrogation about everything I was doing, which at that moment consisted of making a caramel component that required the kind of split-second timing and hand-eye coordination that didn’t mesh well with repeated requests of “What aminal is here, Mommy?”

So distracted was I by the candy thermometer that I could not remember the animals’ order no matter how many times he quizzed me. Finally I sent him off to the potty just so I could pour out the napalm-like sugar without worrying that he’d stick his hand under the flow. I glanced over at the toy and tried to memorize the animals while he was gone. Giraffe, elephant, bear, lion, monkey, I thought to myself. How hard was it to keep five cartoon animals lined up in my head?

Eventually even the longest bathroom break must end. Perch re-secured at the counter my son patiently pointed to the first box. “What’s in this one?”

“A giraffe,” I said.

He applauded my efforts. “You’re right mommy! I knew you could do it! Now what’s in this one?”

“An elephant,” I said, warming to the game and his obvious enjoyment at for once being on the opposite end of the instruction-correction-praise process. I rested my elbows on the counter, giving him and the game my full attention. Then I was on a roll, successfully providing the correct animals for the third and fourth boxes.

“Only one left Mommy,” he said. “If you do this one right you can go cook some more!”

I nodded solemnly. “Only one more! I think I know what it is!”

I did know what it was, especially since the boy gave me the stunningly obvious hint of that animal’s signature sound as he pointed to the last box. “What’s in here?”

“Is it…a snake?” I asked with melodramatic hesitancy.

And the game continued.