It was the calm before the storm. Two kids eager to do anything in the kitchen.
Which meant that between the three of us there were six hands trying to roll out the pizza dough.
Six hands trying to assemble mushrooms. Six hands scattering cheese and sometimes on the pizza.
Six hands doing the job of two…and taking six times as long.
My type A tendencies were beginning to wig.
At which time my son spun ’round on one leg and whapped the flour canister off the counter and halfway to the living room.
I did not recognize the prehistoric roar that came from my own throat. Nor did I respond to my son’s immediate apology or his request to be forgiven. I…I just couldn’t. I merely watched in my peripheral as he scrambled from the chair and raced away with widening hurt.
I saw his bottom lip first…hanging to his waist, as he crept back to the kitchen. He had the same question. “Do you forgive me, mommy?
And…I could do nothing else.
He is my son.
And he has my heart.