Once on a cookie day, when the batter was done, Mom left the room for a moment. She promised to come right back and get the beaters for me.
One minute is an eternity for a small child.
I grew impatient and decided to get the beaters myself. I dragged a chair to the counter and tried my luck with the beaters. It was harder than it looked. A small battle ensued, and the beaters won. Mother’s lovely white mixing bowl lay on the floor broken in pieces.
I was heartsick. I ran crying to some corner of the house, feeling terrible. I knew that I was in serious trouble. Mom loved that mixing bowl. It was her favorite.
When my mother found me, I was a soggy mess of tears. She gathered me in her arms and held me close. She told me how much she loved me. She told me that I mattered more to her than any mixing bowl.
I was surprised. I had no idea how much she loved me. Turns out, I was her favorite, at least compared to mixing bowls.
Mom told me that she could always get another mixing bowl, but she could never get another me.
Though my mother wasn’t perfect, her love for me was perfect, and that love continues to warm me to this day.