I don't mind cooking. It's just that Lara does. As soon as a pot goes on the stove, she walks in. As soon as an ingredient goes in the pot, she wants up. I can't pick you up, honey, I have to cook. I put her in the high chair to watch me, but she just wants to take the measuring spoons out of the drawer and throw them around the floor. When I discover that the measuring cups I need are nowhere to be found, down you go! Then she cries. And cries. She will hang on to my leg or sit directly next to me. It's a good evening when I don't accidentally step on her finger. I carefully maneuver the pot of boiling water so none spills out on my daughter while carefully watching to ensure she doesn't stick her fingers into the door crevice of the hot oven while being careful not to slip on a toy while OW! I step on a measuring spoon.

*(HUGE HUGE) Sigh* Okay, go sit and I will get you juice and a snack.

Of course, a snack this close to supper means she won't eat much supper.

Cooking I can handle. But being a "Chef Mama" as my apron says, I cannot handle.

Cooking to Lara means a mama who won't play with her or hardly look at her for a specific duration of time. She doesn't understand I do this for her survival and her pleasure. But I have to realize that just because food has to be prepared, I don't get to stop being a mama until the food is on the table.

SO, in our kitchen, there is the music box. Old pots and pans, a toy piano, drum sticks (aka dowel rods), a couple of shakers (aka water bottles with beads). When Lara is tired of playing in her one-girl band in the middle of the kitchen, I tell her it's time for her to cook too! She begins to stir her apple-orange-bread soup, adding in a little fish here, maybe a little broccoli there. I offer suggestions, and try to keep the real food separate from the fake food.

Don't forget to add in the Lara spice!