We can see it coming from a mile away: Kiah purses her lips and puffs up her chest, then demands, “No, ME.” She reserves an oddly deep tone of voice for this proclamation, along with a certain accent and emphasis that makes it sound more like “maaaaaay.” The sass dripping from those pouty lips suggests years of practice, belying her mere 24 months. 

I don’t want to say we hear this dozens of times a day, yet I also don’t want to say we don’t. Her independence — or illusions thereof — has been asserting itself with the tenacity and willful ignorance characteristic to the toddler age for some time now. “No, maaaaaay” is apparently applicable in any and all situations, regardless of Kiah’s actual ability to follow through; she is as comfortable boasting it when she is inextricably tangled in and blindfolded by a sweatshirt gone wrong as she is in enthusiastically whisking/exploding anything I’m trying to mix up. 

Sometimes she really can do it on her own, of course, although clearly more practice is necessary. Eggs in general seem to be a dangerous arena; she’s pretty good at carefully collecting and carrying the eggs (after many times of that not being true), but Kiah peeling hardboiled eggs is painful to watch, not to mention to eat. 

Or perhaps more practice is neither necessary nor helpful, something I feel keenly when she starts to take her diaper off herself or tries to pick up the glass gallon jar of milk. Often her desperate insistence in her personal ability makes matters worse, and a simple question or attempt to help her turns into juice slung across the floor and hair tangled every which way. 

All this perceived independence is clearly an expected and important part of childhood development, and we wouldn’t want to put her coat on her forever. However, this stage does parallel a critical one in parental continuing education: patience. And some days, its synonym, longsufferingness.  

As far as I can tell, though it looks different in different contexts, this resolution to spreading wings of independence doesn’t stop anytime soon. We’ve all met teenagers. 

Benson, as an almost-adult 4-year-old, has his own share of independence assertions. He can manage most of the actions I mentioned that Kiah is wrestling through, so he’s moved on to bigger and better things. One process he’s essentially mastered, though, is making breakfast for everyone — and no, not just pouring bowls of cereal (although of course both kids also must do that by themselves). 

He makes a pot of oatmeal just about every other morning, enough for today and leftovers for tomorrow. These silly kids of mine are obsessed with oatmeal, and always have been. I think we served it for at least two of Benson’s birthdays so far, and all signs point to having it at Kiah’s birthday lunch this week. 

I know they like the flavor and familiarity of it, but I’m sure their preference is at least slightly biased by the victorious power of self-efficacy involved. I let them add their own toppings to their bowls, with moderation intervention as called for, and the last couple months I’ve let Benson take more responsibility with making the oatmeal itself. I run the stovetop, and he does the rest. We try to get it going while Kiah is distracted, or she invariably comes barreling over with a cry of “No, ME!” 

I make it up to her by letting her adorn hers. Let’s just say it’s a good thing she likes a lot of cinnamon, because you can guess how that usually goes. 

Everyday Oatmeal

There’s nothing special about this oatmeal, unless of course you have an adorable child making it with you. It feels a little silly sharing a recipe for it — water and oats, what do you need to know? — but I’ve had very meh oatmeal before and this is a good method. I started mixing the types of oats together since I like the gloppiness (maybe I should say the creaminess) of the quick but also the chew of the rolled. I’ve been on a tahini, honey, and coarse salt kick for on my oatmeal, but the kids have zero wavering from their brown sugar, pecans, raisins, and cinnamon. 

Prep tips: adjust the water amount for your personal preference of oatmeal consistency. 

• 1 cup rolled oats

• 1 cup quick oats

• about 4 ½ cups water

• ¼-½ teaspoon salt

• a knob of butter

• milk or cream

• toppings

Add both kinds of oats, water, and salt to a saucepan. Bring to a simmer over medium heat; cook, stirring occasionally, for about 5 minutes until it looks … cooked? It should be thickened and with the oats looking semitransparent. Stir in butter. Add milk and toppings in your own bowl — and feel free to say, “No, ME,” as you do it. 

Lettuce Eat Local is a weekly local foods column by Amanda Miller, who lives in rural Reno County on the family dairy farm with her husband and two small children. She seeks to help build connections through food with her community, the earth, and the God who created it all. Send feedback and recipe ideas to hyperpeanutbutter@gmail.com.