Cayden and I sacked out in the kitchen together a couple nights ago and cooked dinner together. He has been "helping" since he was 16 months old, and has gotten shockingly useful. With a bit of guidance, the kid can actually top a pizza on his own. We were making hummus to go with the filafel Ty had mixed up earlier (I know, we are a strange family that likes chickpeas with our chickpeas). Cayden learned how to smash garlic cloves with the flat of a (plastic) knife to make them easier to peel, how to juice a lemon, what to add to the food processor, and when the humus had been processed enough to serve. While I was talking to him I was struck by a profound sense of ... future history. I have no proper phrase for this feeling in my vocabulary. As I was standing at the counter watching the chickpeas be annihilated by the food processor I could see Cayden's future memories. I could see him grown up, cooking dinner, and casting back to a night cooking with me. I could see his history, our family history, being written. It was an profound moment of seeing what exactly it means to live on in your children. Of course, knowing my luck he will have Tyson's memory and forget my name before he is thirty.
It's more than just a name...it's a lifestyle.
