Mark and Maj and I are all sitting in the living room reading, and Kallan swings into the room, hanging onto the doorframe with one hand as she asks, “Do we have any oatmeal?”
I look up from my book, “We have those flavored packets.”
Kallan swings back and forth in the doorway, one foot kicking out behind her body, “No, the recipe calls for actual oatmeal.”
“Did you look in the cupboards? There might be some up there.”
“I don’t see any.” She fills her voice with pleading and bats her eyes, “Please could you come help me look? I really want to make this recipe.”
Maj puts down her book, “I think we have some. Let me come help you.”
The girls disappear into the kitchen for a few minutes and then they are back. Kallan is hugging the bag of oatmeal to her chest happily, but Maj’s face is filled with annoyance, “Seems like if someone asks for oatmeal in the early evening hours and if that someone mentions a recipe, it is reasonable to assume that cookies will be involved somehow.”
Kallan explains, “I didn’t say anything about cookies, Maj. I need oatmeal to make this facial mask I read about . . . it’s supposed to make your skin smooth and fresh.”
Maj throws herself back onto the couch and picks up her book, “That’s the dumbest and potentially messiest beauty-tip I have ever heard.”
Kallan is unfazed by her sister’s opinion, and she holds up a glossy magazine, “Mom, can I have a cucumber as well? Says here if I put slices of cucumber on my eyes while I relax in the oatmeal mask, I will get the full spa experience.”
Maj snorts.
I wave my arm, “Go ahead . . . spa it up, babe.”
“Yay! Thank you!”
Kallan heads into the kitchen, and the three of us listen to the sounds of cooking that is not cooking. Maj can’t stand it, “How much do I want oatmeal cookies now? That’s so annoying! I wouldn’t have helped her find the oatmeal if I knew it was for a mask. She’s wasting perfectly good cookie ingredients!”
Mark looks up from his book, “Cookies do sound good.”
Maj huffs, “Right? This is all Kallan’s fault.”
There is silence for a moment, and then Maj puts down her book, “Mother, can I make oatmeal cookies?”
“What? Sure, but make sure your sister’s done in the kitchen before you get started . . . I don’t want the two of you fighting over the oatmeal.”
Maj leans to peer into the kitchen, “Kallan, leave me enough oatmeal to make cookies!”
There is the sound of dry oatmeal being shaken in the bag as Kallan considers, “As long as you don’t need more than about a cup, you should be fine.”
“Mother, I will need more than a cup of oatmeal! I haven’t even started making the cookies, and Kallan is thwarting me!” Maj sits back on the couch and crosses her arms, “Mother, what are you going to do about this?”
“Not a big deal, Maj . . . just use some of those maple-flavored packets of oatmeal to make up the difference.”
“Will that work?”
“Sure. They’re cookies, not bombs . . . a little adjustment to the recipe isn’t going to hurt anything.”
Maj stares at me, “But you’re always telling me to follow the recipe carefully.”
“This is a small deviation. It will be fine.”
“What do you think, Daddy?”
“What?” Mark hasn’t been paying any attention, “Yeah, whatever. Cookies!”
“Alright! I will make cookies!” Maj stands and then puts her hands on her hips, “One thing, though. You guys are always way too much in my business when I make stuff. So you have to both promise to leave me alone and let me make the cookies without any help whatsoever.”
Mark and I both promise. Maj heads into the kitchen. A few seconds later, Kallan walks past us with a silver bowl filled with oatmeal goo and a smaller bowl filled with cucumber slices, “Ok, I am off to the spa!” She heads upstairs, and I hear the sound of a door closing.
I turn to Mark, “You don’t think she’s doing the oatmeal mask in her room, do you?”
Maj yells from the kitchen, “We have no sugar!”
“Yes, we do. It’s in the cupboard to the right of the sink.”
“I am staring into the cupboard and there is no sugar, and . . . Oh . . . never mind.”
I turn back to Mark, “Maybe I should go check where Kallan is doing the spa.”
Maj calls out, “Is baking powder the same thing as baking soda?”
“No.”
“I can’t find either one of those baking guys anyway. Can I substitute with corn starch? It’s white and looks like it wants to make cookies.”
“No. Look behind the flour . . . we have baking soda.”
“Mother, it’s so weird how you are in the other room, but you know better than the person staring into the cupboard that we have baking . . . Oh . . . I found the baking soda!”
“Good job, Maj.”
“What size measuring cup should I use if it says I need 2/3 of a cup?”
“Maj, I know you are kidding me right now.”
“So I’ll just double the 1/3 cup one?”
“Good plan.”
“OK, but Daddy gets all weird with rules about which measuring cups are for liquid and which are for dry stuff.”
“It doesn’t matter . . . just measure.”
Mark interrupts, “It does actually matter.”
“See, I told you Daddy is weird about measuring!”
I hush Mark, “Don’t confuse things . . . just let it go.”
With a shake of his head, Mark whispers, “OK, but it matters.”
“Daddy, Mother is trying to lead me astray!”
Mark sighs, “Maj, just do it yourself . . . I’m sure whatever you decide will be close enough.”
Maj squeals, “Close enough? I am not a close-enough kind of baker!”
I walk into the kitchen, “See, the thing about doing it all by yourself, Maj? Is that other people should not be involved. You do see that, right?”
“Mother, I cannot even believe that you have walked into the kitchen to boss me after I specifically told you to stay out of my cookie business.”
“I’m just walking through on my way to check on your sister.”
“Well, as long as you’re here, Mother . . . I have 1½ cups of regular oatmeal and I need 2 cups . . . so I just add these,” she flaps the maple-flavored packets in the air, “until I get to two cups?”
“Yes.”
“And when they ask for a certain amount of butter, they don’t mean melted, do they? Because when you melt butter, it gets smaller.”
“Does the recipe call for melted butter?”
“No, Mother.” She checks the recipe again, “No, it does not.”
“Then don’t melt the butter.”
“I do not appreciate the weary tone in your voice.”
“Carry on, Maj.” I leave Maj to her cookies and walk up the stairs, hoping to find Kallan in the bathroom, but the bathroom at the top of the stairs is empty. I walk to Kallan’s room and find Jack the smaller badly behaved dog sitting hopefully outside her door. I knock, “Kallan?”
She answers the door and ushers me into her room, “Don’t let Jack in. See? Isn’t it awesome?”
It is rather awesome. Kallan has laid out a huge beach towel and a pillow in the middle of her floor. On one side of the towel, she has placed a small vanity mirror, a few gossip magazines, her iPod, and her cell phone. On the other side of the towel is the large silver bowl of oatmeal goo, a few washcloths, and the sliced cucumbers. It is all so very teenagery and grown-up . . . my throat tightens as I try to reconcile the scene before me with my baby girl. I watch as Kallan plumps the pillow and pulls her thick blond hair into a ponytail; her delighted smile of satisfaction and the catch in my throat make what I have to say harder than I expected, “Kallan, you can’t do this oatmeal mask in your room.”
She is instantly outraged, “Why not?”
“Babe, because this is going to be messy, and it’s going to get all over your carpet. You have to be near a sink, and you have to be off of the carpet.”
Kallan is devastated, “But I set everything up! I can’t set this up in the bathroom; that won’t be the same!”
“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to be in the bathroom. I’ll help you move everything if you like.”
“Awwww, please? I promise to be careful.”
“Nope. Sorry . . . you can’t do this in here.”
“Awww. . . fine. I’ll move everything.”
Through this whole conversation, there has been the intermittent sound of Jack trying to hurl himself through the door, and there is another THUD as Kallan bends to fold up the towel. She sighs, “Could you take Jack downstairs with you? He smells oatmeal, and he keeps banging on the door.” Giggling now, she lectures him through the door, “You are not adding to the relaxation, Jackie!”
Jack flings himself at the door again. THUD . . . BARK BARK BARK.
I open the door carefully and scoop Jack into my arms, “Thank you for being mature about this, Kallan.”
“It’s alright . . . the bathroom will work.”
I carry Jack back downstairs, and rejoin Mark in the living room. Mark is exasperated and talking to Maj, “Oh my god, Maj. Could you maybe go three minutes without having an emergency? Figure some things out for yourself – without talking. FOR THREE MINUTES . . . I just don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
Maj walks to the doorway, “OK, I heard that part about the three minutes, but do I grease the pans or not?”
Mark closes his eyes and rubs his temples, “Does it say to grease the pans?”
“Yes. So I should grease them, then?”
“Yes.”
“OK, Daddy. Three minutes of Maj-silence. Three minutes of no emergencies. Three minutes of Maj figuring stuff out on her own. Starting . . . NOW.”
I sit down on the couch and pick up my book, “So Maj is doing well?”
Mark shakes his head wonderingly, “She is a crazy person.” These words have barely been spoken before Maj appears in the doorway, silent but gesturing wildly with her hands. Mark and I stare at her, and her movements grow more frantic.
I wave a hand, “OK, let me guess. You can’t talk because three minutes haven’t passed, and so you are pantomiming the latest emergency.”
Maj nods her head and starts the charade again; she looks for all the world as though she is pretending to carve a pumpkin. Sigh. “Maj, talk. What’s the problem?”
Maj glances at Mark, who has buried his head in his hands, “I cannot figure out how to connect the mixer blade to the mixer.”
“Fine, let me come help you with that.” I walk into the kitchen and attach the blade and then the bowl to the frame of the KitchenAid mixer. I pause before turning on the mixer, “This butter looks rock hard.”
“What? I’m doing what they say. I’m supposed to cream the butter and the sugar.”
I touch a fingertip to a butter stick. It’s very hard, “Did it say anything about softening the butter before creaming it with the sugar?”
“No. Hold on, let me check to be sure . . . Oh . . . it does say soften the butter! How did I miss that? Oh well. I’m sure it will be fine.”
“You might want to smash it a bit by hand first . . . to soften it up a bit.”
“Mother, who is the baker here? Enough with your meddling!”
I head back into the living room. As I sit, there is a metallic sound from above my head that can only be the crash of that silver bowl of oatmeal goop. It takes me a few seconds to register the fact that the crash is not followed by the sound of Kallan’s frustrated screaming, which means she did not drop the bowl. I look around the room, “Mark, where’s Jack?”
“MOMMY! AIIAIAIIEIEEEEE!! BAD BOY! BAD BOY! MOMMY! MOMMY! AIAIIAIEIEEEEE! HELP!”
Mark gestures vaguely without looking up from his book, “He ran that way.”
“MOMMY! MOMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYY!”
Maj appears in the doorway, “What’s the best way to get out extra baking soda? I could have sworn it said a tablespoon, but it did not. Also, you were right about the butter . . . the mixer sounds like it’s a dryer full of gym shoes. Ker-bonk, ker-bonk, ker-bonk . . . we are beating the butter into submission, so don’t you worry about a thing. About that extra baking soda, though . . .”
I race upstairs, calling back to Maj, “Deal with it, babe.”
Kallan is lying on the floor outside the bathroom with an oatmeal-covered Jack pinned beneath her body. She is weeping hysterically. “He ruins everything! All I want is to be like the girls in the magazine! All I want is to make a mask and pretend to be at a spa! He ruins everything!”
Sigh.
I lie on the floor next to Kallan and smooth her hair, “I’m sorry, babe. I promised to hold him. I’m sorry. Did he eat all of it?”
She sniffles, “No. He ate a little and he got a bunch on his forehead.” She loosens her grip on Jack so that I can see his goopy head, “He is the most annoying dog in the world, Mom. I had the door closed and everything. I went back to my room to get my nail polish, and while I was gone, he just bashed the door open.”
I wipe the worst of the oatmeal from Jack’s forehead and hold it for him to eat, “Stupid dog.” I turn back to Kallan, “So you didn’t get to do the mask at all?”
“No.”
“OK, you stay here. I’ll go in and get everything neatened up, and then I’ll take the dog away with me . . . it’ll be alright, I promise.”
Kallan wipes her eyes, “Alright.”
I step into the bathroom and close the door behind me. Jack rams his sticky head repeatedly against the opposite side of the door . . .THUD THUD THUD. I wipe up the dog-thrashed oatmeal, neaten the cucumbers, straighten the towel, and arrange Kallan’s assorted spa accessories. I take one last look to be sure that everything is perfect, and suddenly there is a final THUD and the door swings open. Jack comes flying into the room and dives into the bowl of oatmeal-mask, slamming his face against the bottom of the bowl as he gulps the mixture down . . . WHAM SLOBBER WHAM SLOBBER WHAM.
Kallan is shrieking, “THAT’S WHAT HE DID LAST TIME! I KNEW I CLOSED THE DOOR! STOP HIM!”
I snatch Jack up into my arms. Oatmeal drops from his face onto Kallan’s magazines, and she collapses to the ground in fresh hysteria, “HE RUINS EVERYTHING! I HATE HIM!” There is nothing to say, so I say nothing. I take Jack downstairs and fling him out into the back yard.
Maj stops me, “Are these the right size?” She gestures at the pan on which she has scooped three cookies for my appraisal.
“Depends, Maj . . . are the cookies supposed to be the size of hamburger buns?”
“What? No.”
Kallan is wailing from the floor above us, and so I speak quickly, “How many cookies does that recipe say it makes, Maj?”
“Three dozen.”
“So if you continue making cookies the size you are making, how many cookies do you think you will be able to make?”
She looks into the bowl at the unused dough, “Maybe seven?”
“So make adjustments, Maj.”
“Way to be vague and unhelpful, Mother.”
I go back upstairs and get Kallan settled in our bathroom, which places two closed doors between her spa experience and the crazed terrier. I sit on the floor beside her and apply the oatmeal mask to her smooth perfect skin as she reclines against her pillow on her giant beach towel. I tell her a story about when she was a very little girl and she applied a temporary tattoo across her girl-parts . . . a colorful butterfly that broke as she applied it . . . one wing on each side.
Kallan giggles, “No, I did not.”
I rest a cucumber slice on each of her eyes, “Yes, you did. And you came to me all naked and proud, delighted with your handiwork.”
Kallan giggles again and reaches blindly for her iPod, “Thank you for helping, Mom.”
I stand and step over her body to the door, “I’ll be back in a half hour.”
She gives me an unseeing thumbs-up.
Back downstairs, Jack is barking to be let back into the house. Maj is peering into the oven, “Daddy said that I needed to cook them one pan at a time, so I am cooking them one pan at a time instead of all three pans at once which seems like it would work perfectly fine so if anything is wrong with these cookies I guess we all know whose fault that will be.”
Mark appears in the kitchen doorway, a small plastic Nerf dart-gun in his hand. The darts have long since been eaten by the dogs, but it still makes a satisfying BANG when you pull the trigger. He holds the gun up to his temple and pulls the trigger . . .
BANG!
Maj stares at him as I giggle.
She sighs, “No one said it would be easy to be my father, Daddy.”
She peers into the oven again, “What was up with Kallan, anyway? You would think she could do a simple thing like smear oatmeal on her face without needing assistance.”
Mark picks up the toy gun again . . .
BANG!
