Muffins for Dictators

Was going to post muffin recipes, since that’s become a Tuesday tradition with me and F–drop the big kids at school and race home to bake (and eat) muffins. Except today’s muffins turned out just a tad too healthy for my taste. The kids do seem to like them, but I think they’re overtly healthy, even for muffins. A cup of flax meal, for starters. Two cups of grated carrots. F fought heartily against the carrots. She was positively dictatorial in her rejection of them, even though I assured her she would never notice, had eaten beets in cake very recently, and would appreciate the added moistness. I must have said, “But they’ll be so moist, with the carrots!” about twenty times, to which F said, in so many words, “I’m not buying it.” In the end, the carrots went in. And the muffins weren’t especially moist. So we both won, sort of.

It was a dictatorial three-year-old morning, frankly. Today, she started “school,” her school, that is, which is the Beckett school’s early childhood music programme, a 50 minute, once-per-week extravaganza of drumming and singing and learning quite an impressive amount of music theory (the big kids are graduates). Upon arriving back home this morning, after dropping the big kids off, she raced inside and packed her backpack for “school.” She then went to the door, and demanded we leave NOW. I explained that class started at 2pm. “When we go?” she asked. “Around 1:45,” I said. She heard me say, “Now. We leave now.” “We go now?” “Not for about [check imaginary watch] four and a half more hours.” “We leave now, Mommy.” [Stern tone.] This went on. This went on and on. Distractions were only semi-useful. It always came back to: “Now we leave, Mommy!” Not a question. Time, to three-year-olds, is clearly of little conceptual interest.

I’m just back from two hours “off.” What am I saying? No quotation marks necessary. Two hours off. Two hours out of the house, with sibs, no children in sight. But the frantic effort that precedes those two hours must be seen to be believed. I was over-seeing home reading, facilitating a playdate, cooking supper, preparing lunches, breastfeeding, shoving essentials into backpacks, storing CSA food, all while listening to the radio and doing the day’s dishes (so as not to leave Kevin with too many). I cleared the supper table before Kevin was done eating (sorry, hon). And then, suddenly it was 7pm, my bro Karl arrived, and we walked out the door to … quiet, to no one requesting, suggesting, demanding or tattling upon. Ahhh. I enjoyed those two hours. But here’s the thing. I enjoy just as much getting back home, and being Mama again. Okay, maybe I’m especially enjoying this because Kevin got everyone to bed, and the house is perfectly silent now, just the sound of peaceful, breathing children, and my own fingers typing.

Shoot–that title is now better than this post. My apologies. If I ever make a really good muffin, I’ll let you know. Or let me know if you’ve already cracked that particular code. Wanted: Muffins for (small) dictators, please.

Running Away from Home
Rainy Afternoon

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