Baking with My Four Year Old Daughter

I want to do it
she says at each step
of the recipe,
and I try to let her
even if it means eggs
broken on the counter,
too much salt,
too little flour.
 
She splays the dough
onto the cookie sheet,
using the wooden spoon
as if it’s a combination
snow shovel and mallet.
Each time she turns away
I try to perform
a kind of cookie triage,
finding those blobs
with the best chance
of survival
and nudging them
into a vague roundness.
 
When we’re finished
she holds one aloft
like a medal
and tells her mother
I did these
all by myself,
right Daddy?
I nod, say nothing,
and, for the first time,
wonder how many
of my victories
were smoothed into shape
behind my back.