By Kathryn Andersen 
Flour coated my hands and the front of my blue sweatshirt as I carefully smoothed the dough with my rolling pin.
I smiled as I worked, picturing what would happen the next morning: My new husband of just eight months and I would load into the car and drive to my in-laws, with me balancing two made-from-scratch pies on my lap—one apple (my new husband’s favorite) and one pecan.
And as I set my two completed pies on my mother-in-law’s table the next day, I felt womanly and important. That day was the start of a two-year streak of me proudly bringing a dish to every family function.
But one Thanksgiving, my pattern screeched to a stop.
It was my first Thanksgiving as a mother. Instead of peacefully preparing the pies the night before, I spent hours rocking and nursing a fussy, teething baby.
When my sleepy baby finally settled into his crib, I headed to the kitchen.
But as I mixed my first batch of dough, I messed up the measurements. Tossing the sloppy mess into the trash with a thunk, I looked in the pantry and realized we were completely out of flour. My thumbs quickly tapped through websites, looking for alternative recipes. And then, my son started to cry again.
With tears in my tired eyes, I lifted him up and sat back into the rocking chair. It felt embarrassing that, as a mom of only one baby, I was too overwhelmed to even bake a pie.
The next day, after my husband and I pulled up at my grandparents’ house, I carried in our son and gave my grandma a hug. “I’m sorry,” I told her quickly. “I didn’t bring a contribution this time.” My grandma quickly shook her head and smiled.
“Kathryn,” she said, pointing at my son. “That’s your contribution right there.”
She turned around to continue working in the kitchen, but I stood there for a moment, stunned. Could it really be that simple?
I observed my family as they passed our son around. My grandpa smiled. My aunt held him adoringly. My mom and grandma beamed as he tried some mashed potatoes. My husband grinned proudly. I’m biased, but it did seem like my baby brought a fresh sparkle and a new brightness to the day.
And that’s when something hit me that set my perfectionist heart free: It may feel important, womanly, and helpful to bring casseroles, pies, or cookies to holiday celebrations.
But moms who walk in simply holding young kids—sleep in our eyes, heavy diaper bags in tow—we have an important role, too. And our babies bring more to the table than a pie ever could.
by Lindsey Henke 
