I hope when I am old and gray, I can dig up the memory of you in my old IHOP apron, a souvenir from my poor college days. That, in the recesses of my memory, I'll still be able to see the preschool version of you, my little sous-chef: shaggy, blond hair; gold-flecked brown eyes; chipped front tooth; still wearing pajamas in the middle of the day.
Your little boy fingers gripping a whisk,
I won't be able to remember if we made cookies or muffins. If we baked bread or a souffle. But that doesn't matter.
I just want to be able to find that memory of you, standing on a dining room chair so you could reach the counter. Dozens of memories really, of us creating something in the kitchen together.
I hope I can conjure those up when you are grown, and my heart is aching to feel like a mommy again.
I love you, buddy.