The son stands transfixed in the kitchen, intently watching his mother.
She pulls out a bowl, four eggs and a whisk. She cracks the eggs and deposits the yolks, the convex yellow orbs floating just on the surface. Then she even-handedly stirs the bowl and all of its contents, much to the delight of the young boy in the kitchen.
Then the boy decides he’s going to follow suit. And the father has the good fortune of watching it all unfold from the living room.
With mom’s back still turned, he sets to work. He grabs the metal mixing bowl on the bottom shelf. Next, he needs eggs. He looks around with some trepidation and confusion, and then his eyes go wide and a smile creeps across his face. The dad watches him disappear behind the couch, and return with two balls in his hand. Two small, yellow balls. Two small, yellow balls that look unmistakably like egg yolks. The boy knocks the balls against the rim of the bowl and then throws them in with glee.
Now it’s time to stir and the father can only wonder what the boy will dream up now. Seconds later, that question is answered as the boy retrieves his plastic baseball bat. With the bowl upright on the floor and the balls eggs inside, the intrepid son puts his head in the bowl and begins to furiously wiggle it around and around.
Usually the ruckus would be enough to drive the father batty. But the proud look of accomplishment on the son’s face as he emulates his mother is so much more pronounced than the metallic clanging of the bowl on a tile floor.
And the father smiled.