I’ve been giving myself a hard time lately because I’m seeing some friends with small kids post activities they’ve been doing to pass alllllll the time we suddenly found to spend at home, and I’m faced with the fact that I am not that mom.

But here is what kind of mom I am, in a story from this morning:

Both the kids woke up half an hour early and Littlefoot (nearly four years old, going on fourteen) apparently woke up on the wrong side of his toddler bed because his little Pumpkinhead brother could do nothing without irritating him. After about half an hour of Love playing referee while I cooked breakfast, I said to Littlefoot, “Hey — you wanna help me cook?”

Littlefoot’s eyes brightened. “Yes! Thank you mama! I want to help cook brekdisk!”

I was frying sausage, so I picked him up to show him. He could see the grease popping and I told him he couldn’t help with that part because the grease would jump up and – bite! – his bare chest (poking for emphasis). He nodded his understanding. I turned the heat down to buy myself some time as I told him he could probably crack some eggs.

He watched intently as I got down a bowl, brought out the eggs, and got a whisk. We got his step stool and he climbed up, ready to help. I showed him how we crack an egg. He was enthralled. You mean part of cooking is breaking things?! his eyes seemed to say.

Next, I had him try. He smashed the egg on the side of the counter and I caught the yolk as it tried to escape down to the floor. “Phew! That was a close one,” I said, plopping the egg, shell and all, into the bowl. I fished the shell out as he watched, and he quickly determined that this was not something he could do. “I’m not big enough for this,” he declared.

Smart kid. I didn’t really think he was big enough either, but I was game. No big thing to get shell out of scrambled eggs, and the cool thing about kitchens is that they are totally washable.

“My hands are dirty,” he said, stepping down from the stool. He headed to the sink and, as usual, commented on all the bubbles washing his hands made. Inspired by “bubbles”, I filled the sink with soapy water and brought his step stool over to the sink.

“Here,” I said, handing him a couple things that needed to be washed but weren’t terribly dirty. “Have fun.”

And I turned back to my nearly cooked sausage and finished up cooking breakfast.

When I was done, I turned and looked at the scene by the sink and it reminded me of an article full of toddler activities I read with a picture that looked more organized than what I was seeing, but definitely bore a resemblance.

I do toddler activities…. I just don’t plan to.