For those who have not read much of my blogs, blueberry muffins are a Sunday morning tradition in our home. They represent the change that any family goes through, but also shows the strength of tradition that binds a family together. And now the next generation is in on the making of blueberry muffins.
Lately, I have been the one making the blueberry muffins on Sunday morning (teenagers do sleep in). For the last couple of weeks I have had two little helpers. My four and three year-old daughters have been helping me make the muffins.
I set the girls on the kitchen island with the ingredients and bowls between them.
“I’ll break the eggs. You put them in the bowl. OK, dad?”
And each daughter gets to break an egg for the muffins, and they get to break a couple for the scrambled eggs we have added to our Sunday breakfast. The girls giggle as a little bit of the egg gets on their hands. They rush to the bathroom to wash. I have to wait for them. They don’t want to miss helping at any point.
“Alright, keep the spoon in the bowl,” I say as I hold the glass bowl for my three year-old to mix the batter.
She smiles as she speeds up the spoon, creeping up the edge. I tilt the bowl as best I can to her frantic motions.
“Very nice. Time for the blueberries.”
“Do we need that net thing?”
I reply that we do. The girls marvel at how the water turns purple.
The three of us get Sunday morning breakfast ready for the family. At such a busy time in life, I know this routine is a way to be a dad. We make a small mess and it takes twice as long to get breakfast done, but for 20 minutes nothing matters except us. Every morning this week my two daughters have asked if we were having blueberry muffins. I tell them no, but on Sunday we will. Like we do every Sunday.