"Mom," my eleven-year-old daughter said. "Can Bubba and I make dinner tonight?"
"Sure," I said. A break from kitchen duty sounded good. "What are you going to make?"
"Okay." I got out the Pillsbury pizza dough and other ingredients and placed them on the counter. "Have at it."
I went back to my work.
Two seconds later: "Mom, how do you open this?"
I had to show her how.
Three seconds later: "Mom, what do you do with this stuff?"
"Read the directions."
Four seconds later, I looked at the girl. She had rolled the pizza dough into a giant ball. "You're supposed to roll out the dough," I said.
She tried and got frustrated. "Here Mom, you do it!"
I rolled the dough into a circle.
"Now what?" she asked.
"Read the directions," I said, and went back to my work.
Five seconds later: "Mom, you need to put this in the oven."
I put it in the oven and set the timer. Meanwhile, my daughter decided to make a milkshake. She got out the blender, and the milk, and the ice cream. She put the stuff in the blender and started mixing. Unfortunately, the apparatus was not completely secure, and milk spilled out the bottom. "Mom!" she cried. "You didn't put this together right!" She stood there while the milk poured off of the kitchen counter on to the floor.
I grabbed some paper towels and cleaned up the mess.
Then my son got involved. Of course I had to help him, too.
Finally, dinner was ready.
"Mom, can we invite our friends over for a pizza party? I think they'll like the pizza I made."
I laughed at that. "Sure, go ahead," I said.
Soon we had a house full of kids enjoying pizza and milk shakes. So much for a night off!