I nod. “I’ve never baked like this before, but I’m here for it.”
Taking a fork in my hand, I set him up with a much smaller one that won’t do shit, but at least he can feel like he’s participating.
We mash the bananas. Well, I mash the bananas. Max just kind of rings his fork against the metal bowl.
“Excellent job,” I reiterate. “Four eggs.” I do that part. I don’t think his little hands could quite grasp an egg yet. “And a bit of canola oil.” Filling up one of the measuring cups, I hold it out for him to take, making sure to cover his hand with mine.
I want him to feel like he’s doing this. Who knows, maybe he’s learning. I would’ve loved to learn about the kitchen from my mom, but she wasn’t around to teach me in the same way Max’s mom isn’t here to teach him.
We pour the oil into the mixture, losing a bit on the counter along the way, so I add a splash more for good measure.
We do the same with the sugar and salt. Adding in baking soda and a packet of instant vanilla pudding. No way in hell would I get away with adding instant pudding into a recipe for work, but we’re baking for fun, something I haven’t done in years. And it’s especially fun when Max throws the flour into the bowl and a big flour cloud flies up because of it, coating him in a layer of white.
He laughs hysterically and I can’t help but join him. His messy brown hair is dusted, his shirt is covered, but there’s a giant smile on his face as he tries to suck in enough air to breathe through his laughter.
“Bug, I think we need to get you an apron like mine.”
He giggles some more, and I adore the sound. Sure, his family unit looks a little different than what his friends might have when he gets to school. He’ll probably notice that a lot of kids on TV have two parents, but Max has got it good. He’s happy and I couldn’t want anything more for him.
I peel his shirt off and let him live his best naked toddler life before adding a bit more flour to the mixture. Carrying both him and the bowl, I latch it to the base of the mixer, then let him help me turn it on.
His blue eyes go wide and his little mouth parts when he sees and hears the mixer start up. I don’t watch the ingredients. I only watch him because I can’t get over seeing him experience these things for the first time. There’s so much joy on his sweet face and I find myself feeling the same way.
Happy and excited while baking.
About time I felt that again.
I’m typically a walnut girl when it comes to banana bread, but I opt for chocolate chips on this round. I let him drop them in from above, noting the two he puts into the batter is balanced by the two he shoves into his mouth each time.
I get the Bundt pan into the preheated oven, an odd sense of pride and . . . relief flowing through me because I actually completed a dessert that I have a good feeling I won’t fuck up over the next hour while it bakes.
But then I turn around and see the absolute disaster we made in the kitchen. Max is back by the counter, continuing to eat the chocolate chips I pulled for him, and I can’t help but smile at the view.
My culinary professors would have died if my station were ever this messy in school. I would have been screamed at, berated. I’ve grown a thick skin from my time in the restaurant industry. Cleanliness and organization are rules one and two in the kitchens I contract for. Other than my one single towel I keep over my shoulder, I don’t touch anything. My hair is pulled back tight, my uniform is crisp, and my skin is covered.
But I’ve got a naked baby over here, my hair is messily on top of my head, and I couldn’t feel more like myself.
A little over an hour later, I’ve got a piece sliced for us with butter melting on top when the front door opens. Kai comes strutting in, post-practice, sneaking up on his son from behind.
“Are you nakey?” he asks, tickling Max’s belly and covering his cheeks with kisses.
Max wiggles in his grasp, laughing.
“Naked Maxie, what are you doing?” His dad picks him up, holding him to his chest. Max’s little arms instantly go around his neck and I have to look away so I don’t drool from watching Kai hold his son while wearing that damn backwards hat.
“Hi, Mills,” he says.
I swing my attention back to him. “Hi.”
He’s got Max situated on one incredibly veiny forearm when he uses the bottom of his shirt to wipe the summer sweat from his brow.
He’s got to be freaking kidding with that. How has he not been with anyone since Max came along? All he needs to do is stand at his front door, hold his son, and maybe take his shirt off. All the women in the neighborhood would come running. It’s like watching single dad porn.