“I live in a bakery. I live in my mom’s bakery.” This is what our 4 year old told us that she shared with her pre-K class when they were getting to know each other at the beginning of school. She dropped it as casual dinner conversation too. She even asked was that right as if she didn’t want to spread untruths. At first I laughed (denial), then I was horrified (anger), I needed to figure a way to clear up any misunderstandings my verbose child must have caused (bargaining). What in the world were they going to think (depression)? Then came simple acceptance (acceptance). The poor child does live in a bakery. She understood it before I did.
Her mom runs around in a hair net and flour dusted clothes. She constantly has to ask if the delicious smell is for us or somebody else. The “pie fridge” is a thing at our house, a place where only Sweet Bytes food and customer orders are stored, a place where only grown ups are allowed. She gets banned from the kitchen on a regular basis and on more than one occasion she has had to make the “yucky face” after tasting some new recipe. (She really doesn’t like food that makes her make the “yucky face.”) Strangers and friends come to our house, not to visit, but to pick up white boxes filled with treats they have ordered. She loves to talk to them all and usually tries to give them a hug and hopes they’ll be back soon. Sometimes she gets confused and thinks that we are supposed to bake everyone special cakes when she hears that it’s their birthday (I’m working on getting her to quit offering!) All of my other kids (there are 4 spanning ages 23 to 4) got to say their mom was an art teacher and they lived at their house. This last one though, she lives in a bakery.
The baby of the family