Bua and I

Children don’t ask whether they did most of the work. They ask whether they were part of it.

Photo by Manuel on Unsplash

Recently, my four-year-old nephew and I baked cookies.

Like most baking sessions with young children, it wasn’t especially efficient.

He cracked the eggs with enormous concentration.

Insisted on sifting the flour.

Added the chocolate chips as though every handful required careful artistic judgment.

The kitchen looked exactly as you’d expect afterwards.

We cleaned up.

The cookies cooled.

Life moved on.

Or so I thought.

A few days later we were travelling with family.

Someone picked up one of the cookies.

Before they could take a bite, my nephew asked,

“Do you know who made it?”

There was a pause.

Before anyone answered, he beamed.

“Bua and I.”

He repeated this throughout the trip.

Every time someone reached for a cookie.

Every single time.

The thing that stayed with me wasn’t his pride.

Children are proud of all sorts of things.

It was the grammar.

Not,

“My bua made them.”

Not,

“She made cookies.”

But,

“Bua and I.”

That tiny conjunction carried an entire relationship.

Children don’t measure belonging the way adults do.

They don’t ask whether they were in charge.

Whether they did most of the work.

Whether they deserve the credit.

They simply ask,

“Was I part of this?”

If the answer is yes, the story becomes,

“We made it.”

I often think adults underestimate how much children want genuine participation.

Not pretend jobs.

Not being handed a wooden spoon to keep them occupied.

Real work.

Real ingredients.

Real responsibility.

When children are trusted with meaningful tasks, they’re rarely interested in perfection.

They’re interested in contribution.

Years from now, I doubt my nephew will remember that particular batch of cookies.

He may not remember the recipe.

Or how much vanilla we used.

Or whether they were chocolate chip or double chocolate.

But I hope he remembers something else.

That there was a kitchen where he wasn’t in the way.

Where someone made room beside the mixing bowl.

Where there was a whisk that fit his hands.

Where cracking an egg was considered important work.

Where he wasn’t watching life happen.

He was part of making it.

Perhaps that’s why those three little words have stayed with me.

Not because they were about cookies.

Because they were about belonging.

Bua and I.