As I was making him cupcakes tonight, he stood next to me, licking the…. you were going to say beaters, weren’t you? Yep, well, we don’t have any beaters right now. They are packed somewhere as we get ready to sell our house. So, instead, he stood there, licking the giant fork I was using to mix the enormous bowl of cake batter. I poured the batter into the cupcake pans. I think this is truly the defining moment between the Mrs. Brady moms and the rest of us. Wait, Mrs. Brady had Alice. Okay, the Martha Stewart moms. Wait, she doesn’t have kids, does she? Well, you know what I mean – “those” moms and the rest of us. The moms who can pour the batter into each individual cup without spilling and the rest of us who go around licking our fingers and smearing the batter off the spaces between the cups so the whole kitchen doesn’t smell like burning while they are baking. I digress.
I stood there, messily pouring the batter, vowing to somehow evolve into a better mom-cook-person. We were talking. He was stalling. The night before your birthday does that to you. After I poured the last of the batter into the cupcake pans, I placed the bowl in the sink. As I turned the water on, he exclaimed, “My precious!” It made me laugh. So, I repeated it, Lord of the Rings style. Then he asked, “Mom, what does ‘precious’ mean, anyway?”
I explained, in my best attempt at grasping mentally for a dictionary, that precious meant special and rare and wonderful and great. He said, in that moment you long for as a mother, “Mom, I think you’re precious.” My heart gleamed with pride. I smiled to myself. I thought, “YES! YES! Seven years in and my son values me! He loves me!” But, before I could gloat any further he completed his thought:
“Precious… and chubby.”