Beaten to the Parental Punch

Today Adam asked me to play "kitchen" with him. It's his favorite game. I can't tell if he likes play eating or real eating more. He has a passion for food. He even helps us cook.

So, he talked me into playing kitchen with him. I suppose if he weren't such an uber-masculine boy (built like a tank, and loves to wrestle, play sports, and climb things for no particular reason save that they're there to be climbed) and I weren't such an "enlightened" man who loves to cook, I might worry at least a little about a boy whose favorite toy is his child-sized kitchen. But rather than wonder what, if anything, playing kitchen in a culture in which that constitutes women's work, says about my son, I was just thrilled that he asked me to play with him. So we played kitchen, which mostly consisted of him sticking plastic vegetables into plastic pots, sticking them onto a plastic stove-top for about a second and a half, declaring them done!! and handing them to me to "eat" them. YUM!

After creating his own eggplant pizza (only a vegetarian child would create something like that!) he got bored with "cooking." So, he stared for a little while at his assortment of plastic plates, wondering what he might do with them.

Whoosh!

A blue plate went careening toward the television in our living room.

He then turned to me, and before I could get in a word, proudly declared

Daddy, that is NOT a Frisbee!

He stole my line from me. At least I can't say he never listens.