I was busy doing something else. I usually am, when something like this happens. The munchkins had just finished watching Matilda. It was about fifteen minutes before I got around to checking in on them.
They were in the kitchen.
A broken egg was on the floor. It had been smeared into one of my kitchen mats. Powdered sugar and flour were sprinkled generously on the counters. And on Claire's face. And in her hair.
Grace stood on a chair at the mixer. She had cracked one egg (this one had been done carefully) and dropped it in the mixing bowl along with random amounts of flour, powdered sugar, and milk.
"Is this how Matilda made pancakes?" she asked.
As I noticed the frying pan Grace had carefully placed on a burner, I evenly, calmly replied, "Um, I think she used a recipe. Since she could read."
"Oh," she said.
Then she asked me to pass her more sugar.
I didn't yell. I cooked two pancakes on the griddle Grace had prepared.
But I was preparing too. I would take advantage of this teaching opportunity. As soon as they bit into their yucky pancakes, I would share with them the importance of following recipes. That this experience was an analogy for life. That obedience is crucial to happiness and "yummy pancakes."
Unfortunately, they scarfed the pancakes.
Apparently, milk, eggs, sugar, and flour always taste good together. Recipes and measurements be darned.
My life. Oh, my life.