ANYWAY. I got out the new sack of cornbread and fluttered around the kitchen turning on the oven and looking for my 8” square pan.
Captain Adventure wandered through, looking for something to
“Oh,” he commented. “What dat?”
“That’s cornmeal,” I told him.
“Oh! DORNfeel!” Duh, mom, that’s what I just said…
And then he stood there looking at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to explain the dornfeel.
“For cornbread. I’m going to make cornbread for dinner. You want some cornbread? With butter and honey?” Oh yeah, I am ALL about the nutrition…
“Oh…” He’s not too sure, actually, and about to move on.
And then I
“Hey. Captain Adventure? Do you want to help make the cornbread?”
Is the Pope Catholic? Is the sun bright? Do monsters live in my closet? PLEASE! Of course I want to
I DO IT is apparently the Phrase of the Month around here. It applies to everything from things he can do himself (picking his own clothes, selecting his own Capri Sun from the fridge, getting a book from his shelf) to things he just so utterly can’t or shouldn’t (cutting apples with a paring knife, putting discs into the computer, driving the minivan).
It is non-negotiable (at least in his mind) and becoming extremely frequently yelled. He is suddenly developing a keen interest in controlling the world around him – I don’t blame him at all, and I have to say it really sucks how often we have to say, “Sorry, but no”
He actually did very, very well. It started with one cup of cornmeal, which I dipped out and handed to him in a metal measuring cup to put into the bowl.
“Oh! What do next?” he asked.
“OK, well, we need one cup of regular flour,” I said, taking the cup back and dipping up a cup of all-purpose.
“I DO IT!” he bellowed…you know, in case I had forgotten in the last eight seconds. Carefully, he upended the cup into the bowl and stared at the two flours. “What next?”
“OK, well, we need some sugar…” Uh-oh. Hmm. Three tablespoon is a little advanced here and if he gets direct access to the sugar bin…wait, I’ve got it. “So! Hold up your cup! Ready? We have to count to three, here we go…one, two…Captain Adventure? Are you counting?” I dipped the tablespoon into the sugar and measured them out into his cup.
“Perfect! OK, in the bowl!”
“In da bowl! I DO IT! I DO IT!”
Four teaspoons baking powder and half a teaspoon salt followed. What next?!
“Now, we stir,” I told him, and handed him a spoon.
“I DO IT!” he yelled. Habit can be such a…constant…master…while he stirred, I frantically whipped together the egg, milk and vegetable oil behind his back. What next? Why look! It’s magic! Mommy has wet stuff! (And didn’t have to deal with I DO IT and raw eggs, which she’d like to save for when you’ve got just a wee touch better fine motor skills.)
The wet went into the dry and was mixed under the constant bellowing of the new battle cry: I DO IT! I DO IT! I DO IT!!
The batter went into the pan. I DO IT!
The batter was scraped from the sides of the bowl. I DO IT!
The pan was proudly borne to the oven. I DO IT!
The oven door was opened. No, you do NOT do it…Mommy do it…
The pan was put into the oven, and the oven light turned on so that the chef could keep an eye on his creation. MOMMY? I DO IT!
He got bored pretty fast and wandered away to
“Oh. Dat dornfeel!” he announced cheerfully. “Mommy? I do dat dornfeel. Mommy?! I DO DAT DORNFEEL!”
“Cornbread, sweetie. You made cornbread with cornmeal.”
“Yeah. Dat right. I made it.”
“You sure did. Good job, buddy.”
“Did you make cornbread?” Daddy asked. “High five!”
Captain Adventure’s high fives could probably knock over a mule. He was grinning from ear to ear, infinitely pleased with his own cleverness.
“OK! I made it!” A brief pause, and then he looked at me with that same expectant expression. “What next?”
“Well, we’re done now, sweetie. Dinner’s ready!”
“Howwwwwwww ‘bout…hey! HEY! I wanna make-it cake! Yeash! OK! Mommy? WHAT’S NEXT?!”
If you give a kid a dornfeel…he’s gonna wanna make-it a cake…