Smelling the Gingerbread

When you get married and have children later in life (I was rapidly approaching 40 when Mr. Smith and I finally, at long last located each other), the transition can be a bit rocky.
I was not accustomed to dealing with other people in that way. Suddenly, I was no longer the only “decider.” I had a partner, a person that expected me to discuss decision BEFORE they were 
made, and rightfully so.
I still struggle with this aspect of married life/parenthood.
I wrestle with the part of my single self that consulted no one. I did what I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it, without informing anyone and that was okay.
Now, and this is not a complaint, I have other people that need/want me. I have obligations that keep me from indulging my whims. The most mundane things require more planning.
Every year, I make Gingerbread. I just do it, or I used to do it. It is no big deal, just whip up a batch and there you have it. Quick and easy.
This year, this little crumpet wanted to help. She insisted. Baby C does not take no for an answer. She just drags the chair over and takes the spatula. 
Bless her ferocious heart.

Suddenly, this thing I just wanted to get done became something else entirely.
She forced me to slow down, get out of my own head and relish the opportunity to 
bake with my daughter.

Sister mercy, would you just look at those little still-chubby-but-just-starting-to-lose-her-chubbiness feet?
My cup runneth over.

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