My mom cooks and bakes quite a bit (I come by it honestly). When I was a kid, she was constantly whipping up something new, always tracking down the strangest new recipes to try (it’s genetic). More often than not, we were all pleasantly surprised by the turnout. But while she was engaged in whatever sort of process was required to get to that finished product, I refused to be left out of the fun.

So she would give me a little bowl and spoon, then let me go crazy. My little bowl would end up as a weird mixture of flour, water, maybe some oil and whatever spices smelled good. Or…all of the spices. I was allowed to explore all of the options in the pantry, the spice drawer and the fridge. And I’m quite sure that I never produced anything edible.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was that I had the freedom to explore. And the freedom to fail. And the freedom to get creative when something appeared to be a complete flop! (Like my attempt at hot water pastry.)

Over the past year, I’ve done a bit more exploring. She hasn’t been a fan of that. More than once, I’ve gotten an earful for not communicating enough or for telling her about something crazy after-the-fact. But I constantly remind her that she raised me well, she taught me how to think for myself, and she gave me space to learn from my mistakes.

Happy Mother’s Day to the one who talks me through crust that falls apart, reminds me when it’s time to reset my clock, and tells me that it’s okay to love!