There are little, flour footprints all over the floor even though I have swept three times today. There's flour on the countertops in big splotches and small tufts. It's on my shirt, and in his hair, and I'm pretty sure if I looked, the dog might even be sporting a bit on her back. There is pretty much flour everywhere, and I'm starting to wonder just what I have gotten myself into with making these supposedly "quick rolls." Something tells me that clean up might be twice as long as the making.
But he specifically wanted to help. He rearranged his playtime and asked about it twice. These stolen moments where I'm still requested need to be cherished. As The Barracuda has gotten bigger, the desire for direct interactions with Mom is diminishing. He still wants me to be there, and to enthusiastically watch, but participating is limited to the sidelines.
So maybe the house looks like a Franz factory blew up, and maybe the dog isn't too thrilled about the taste of flour as she cleans her fur. But the boy can bathe, laundry can be done, and we still have a hour or so before Dad gets home for me to wipe down the kitchen.