soup

My wide-eyed kiddos sat at the table tonight - watchful - waiting to see what was in the big black pot on the stove. I placed the sectioned plates on the table and dished out dinner...

Maya (with eyes turned down in disappointment): "Momma, I don't really like this kind of soup."

Me: "Love, I know you'll like it if you just try it."

She thinks about it for a while, then samples the soup on her spoon.

Me: "Do you like it?"

Maya (grinning): "Yes... it's good."

I (donning a satisfied smile, with saucepan and ladle in tow) begin my retreat to the kitchen when she speaks up...

Maya: "Momma, you are such a good cooker. You are the momma, and there is no one more precious than you to make dinner."

Almost immediately, my thoughts scrambled into formation for a discourse on gender roles and the fact that daddas and uncles and grandmas and grandpas and anyone else can cook dinner, not just mommas. Just as I opened my mouth to begin my lecture, I SAW the sweet look that accompanied my daughter's statement. She was affirming, appreciating and THANKING me. My heart flooded, my lecture seemed irrelevant and I was left speechless. Everything except the genuine gratitude in her eyes fell to the floor in our exchange over soup.

Me: "Thank you, honey. That was really sweet."

Maya: "You're welcome."