Why teenagers are better than toddlers: the baking edition

I always thought I would be the mother in the Disney movie remake of real life. Not the evil witch mother but the caring, nurturing, play on the floor and bake cookies kind of mother. I loved children long before I had my own and after enduring a childhood fairy tales most definitely aren’t based on, I had it firmly in my mind that I would make my child’s life magical and wonderful. Wistful and dreamy even.

But, as every mother of young children knows, that’s not always how life goes. My attempts at doing craft quickly became sessions that will no doubt be relived in his therapy sessions when he’s older. I would not be surprised if the sight of craft paper or a glue stick instils fear in him even now. Let’s just say patience is not one of my virtues, in fact I embarrassingly remember screaming at him once for ruining my vision of his year K project. (Why on earth do they give Year K students projects?).

Clearly arts and craft was never a winner in our house but surely we’d be able to cook together? He’d sit on the bench top and helpfully stir with a wooden spoon or neatly and precisely add key ingredients to the batter. In my fantasy he would have a sprinkle of flour on his cheeks and the rest of him would be spotless. In fact he’d be Prince George on the kitchen bench if Prince George hadn’t been born many years after him. But in reality he sat on the bench top with snot streaming from his nose and I grabbed stuff from his tiny little hands because he kept making such a bloody mess. And if he got to add something to the batter he’d miss. Even people who aren’t hysterical about mess would have been uncomfortable.

So he grew up without having the craft and cooking experiences of the Ladybird version of upbringing and he seemed to do okay. No obvious scarring and as yet he has not requested to see a therapist about that Year K project.

Much time has passed since I thought being a good mum was about sitting on the floor and creating dioramas or colouring in with bold textas. Being parent to a teenager I can see how fleeting those arts and crafts hours were and I can see that having them or not having them really made no difference to the kind of person he is or the kind of mother I am.

Now he’s out of the house more than in the house. Just last weekend my husband and I were thinking we better come up with some sort of external interest or hobby to keep us sane when we become empty nesters.

But then during the week my son got sick, not in a terrible, scary way, just in a teenager who parties all weekend and then crashes during the week kind of way. He was viral and miserable, headachey and snotty and so he was in the house more than he was out the house, in fact he was in the house ALL THE TIME because he wasn’t at school.

Having a sick teen is very different to having a sick child. He still moans a lot and wants to be acknowledged but he’s happy to do it by text from his bed. There has been none of that relentless need to be entertained which is quite the benefit of waiting out those early years.
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But at one point he did meander down to the kitchen and ask for a chocolate self-saucing pudding as you do. I was preparing dinner at the time so I suggested he make it himself, as dessert.

And he did. He stood there in the kitchen with me and we cooked together – me making dinner and him making dessert.

He didn’t sit up on the bench top all cherubic and sweet, he didn’t just add a few ingredients here and there and stir the batter. He searched for a recipe he liked, he got all the ingredients together and he made a bloody sensational pudding.

The more things change the more they stay the same, because he also created an absolute shitload of mess.

But this time it was worth it. Not as much for the delicious dessert, but for the time spent with my boy.

PS Note how I photographed the mess but forgot to capture the result. *shrugs and sighs*