“Whisk, baby. See how the liquids kinda separate? Whisk until you don’t see that,” I explain to 3 year old Charlotte, watching as she uses all her energy to whisk as hard as she can. “There you go,” I chuckle, going back to chopping up some vegetables while keeping an eye on her.

You’re going to be home any minute now from work, and my goal was to have dinner already on the table before you walked in the door. I know you’ve had a stressful few days and I wanted to help out anyway I could.

So now I have my long hair tied up in tight “man-bun” with your pink apron protecting my white shirt, and our daughter is standing on a stool I pulled over from the counter once she insisted on helping me.

Quite the sight, I imagine.