Page 64 of Campus Daddies

Smart move. Kids get sidetracked so easily, and they generally move slower. You know, lack of practice.

Noah and I have a routine for baking. It means he’s on top of holding measuring cups, scooping, and following directions. However, he’s also notorious for tasting ingredients he’s not familiar with.

Like the yeast.

It’s a packet, but that doesn’t stop him from scooping some into his mouth.

“How’d that work out for you?”

He makes a nasty face at me and hands me the packet.

I sprinkle it over the honey water and scoot his stool closer to the sink to spit and rinse. Can’t say that’s going to slow him down at all. If the baking soda didn’t stop him, I’m not sure anything edible will.

“What did I say about trying dry ingredients like that?”

Noah giggles and puts on his pretend ashamed face like I don’t know the difference. The little punk. I grab his side for a quick tickle, and he giggles high and bright.

A few moms and dads look over to smile at us.

When the dough comes together, I knead it hard until it’s smooth and then have Noah practice on it, pushing, rolling, and folding.

Then, we get to his favorite part—what goes on the pizza.

First, we season the sauce with garlic, onion, and oregano. I give him a little on a spoon to lick, and he goes back for seconds. I expect nothing less.

Then, we grate the mozzarella. He’s got a handful before I swing it across the counter, but I also take a pinch and smile at him as we munch together. He’s too cute.

I ruffle his hair and give him half of a cleaned bell pepper. It’s something he’s worked with before, and he knows how to slice and dice. Still, I watch him as I peel the onion.

We get mushrooms, pepperoni, sausage, and olives all prepared to go on the dough.

Noah has had a bit of everything, and I doubt he’s going to be able to each much of the pizza, but it looks delicious when it comes out.

And it turns out pretty damn good.

I cut him a thin slice, which he devours, but he doesn’t ask for more.

Too easy. We get a box to take it home in, by which I mean, we take it to Dad’s house. As soon as we walk in the house, Noah is jumping and chattering and telling Dad all about the pizza and what it’s made of.

Dad oohs and aahs whenever Noah takes a breath to keep going. He’s crawling onto a chair between the kitchen table and the counter where I set the box.

“Yeah, Peepaw, you should try a piece. You try a piece.” He pats the top of the box, struggling to open it.

We laugh with him as he beams, so proud of himself. And he should be. My good little man.

“Should I reheat some, and we can put on a new movie?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.” He hops on the chair, and I give him our gesture to settle down a little. Noah plants his sneakers on the chair and squats down.

The little dictator points at different snacks to bring to the couch. I allow him a bowl of chips with his pizza slice but not the ten different candies he wants. He can have a few chocolate kisses later.

It’s easy to settle down with him between Dad and me and put on a new animated movie. I swear they come out with a new one every week or so.

Unfortunately, halfway through, my stomach cramps. Nausea sends a wave of hot and cold over me.

Am I having a reaction to the pizza? It all seemed to taste fine. It was cooked through.

No. Dad and Noah are both fine.

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