Control Freaks with kids

It’s Friday afternoon, and so we are making Challah. On the one hand, this is an easy process; I’ve been doing it for years, and I’m a well-oiled kitchen machine when I work by myself. However, I have kids, and they get snippy with me when I try to do things alone; they feel there’s a teaching opportunity here. The way they tell it, it’s my responsibility as a mother to include them in the ritual. They are probably right, so I don’t argue; I just sigh, and lay down some ground rules.

Rule number one: Only I touch the Kitchenaid, only I get to mix the initial ingredients. Nobody else. My son doesn’t mind; he only wants to play with the dough anyway. My daughter glares at me and at the Kitchenaid; it’s clear that she’s thinking my rules are very unreasonable. She imagines breaking eggs and dumping flour, as well as measuring oil and honey: all fantastic things she’s missing out on. I am a horrible mother for not allowing her to do any of these things.

Luckily, after the dough rises I let her re-knead, braid, spread with egg and throw spices at it. She’s not satisfied; in denying her the messier part of the process, I am not fulfilling my parental duty.

“If you think I am going to let you break eggs and measure flour, you’re mistaken,” I tell her. After all, I know how disorganized she can be, and I’m not about to be talked into letting her mess up my wonderful dough. When she is ready to finish her bread with the spices, I tell her to “spread the Zatar evenly, in a thin layer.” (Rule number two: follow instructions to the letter).
She dumps a whole spoonful in one spot, where it immediately sticks to the raw egg.
“And this is why,” I say, “I don’t let you do any of the other stuff. You don’t listen”.

She instantly has an answer: “If you don’t let me try, how am I ever going to learn?”

Well? Well. I don’t exactly have a good answer for that at this moment. When she makes mistakes on her homework, with her art, in her social interactions, I tell her mistakes are a necessary part of learning. I don’t expect her to always get everything right the first time, and I tell her so on a regular basis. I think kids should be allowed to mess up; it’s how they learn. So why do I have to be so bloody controlling in the kitchen? And why do I send her the message that she has to be perfect before I’ll hand over the reins? Isn’t that wildly hypocritical? Yes, it is.

I guess she could dump an eggshell or two in the dough, drop something on the floor, spill the flour and the honey and the oil, and so what? She’s right; she’s never going to learn unless I let her try. And besides, it looks like I have a lesson or two to learn myself. I make a solemn promise, right now, in writing: next week, she’s going to do it all by herself. I’ll stand at a safe distance, yelling instructions from afar. Oh, except for the hot oven: I have my limits.

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