Pride was spilling from her face almost as much as the fruit loops were rolling from the bowl. She made it herself. Nothing could possibly taste as good to her as her accomplishment felt. 

I praised her for a job well done as I began to picture the condition of the kitchen. It had probably been through as much as a kitchen possibly could go through. Yet, what really mattered was the fact that she made it herself. Right?

She maybe had two bites. In the time it took her to put it together, she must have lost her appetite.

I made my way into the kitchen. An opened milk bottle sat beside two puddles slowly dripping to the floor. Three dish towels were left piled in a wad on the floor as though they were helping to clean the mess. Thirty or so fruit loops were spread across the counter. For some mysterious reason, most cupboards were left opened around the room. What could she have possibly been looking for?

I suppose I could make the kitchen off limits. I could insist that my children aren't allowed to prepare food. Yet, would they ever know the fun of the kitchen? Do I want them to know how to help, or would I just rather do it all myself? Sure, it's much more simple to just do it, but those fruit loops rolling to the floor are reminders that nothing could possibly taste as good to her as her accomplishment felt.