"Mama," she says, pointing to the microwave as it begins to beep. "The corn is done."
"Yes, babe, I know," I reassure her. "I've got it."
"Mama," she cries, "the cobbler is going to burn," as she sniffs the air when the peaches begin to drip on the oven element.
"Don't worry, honey," I say. "I'll take care of it."
"Mama," she calls out again, "the pasta is boiling over."
"No, sweetheart," I say through gritted teeth. "It really is just fine. I've got it all under control. Trust me."
And that's when I realize that she doesn't. It why she's always mothering her brother, and contradictory with her Mommy, and all up in my kool-aid (a favorite Amyism). She doesn't trust that any of us can do a better job than she can.
And where most people would say, "Oh, poor baby, what have I done?" I can't help but beam a little on the inside - because on the outside, of course, she's on the verge of her third freaking timeout for smarting off again!!
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