My daughter Belle loves to “help” around the house. And considering that her older brother Milo won’t go within 100 feet of anything that might entail “lifting a finger”, her desire to earn her keep is quite endearing.

Except when it’s not.

Too much of a good thing, it turns out, is possible.

Belle wants a hand in everything from filling the dishwasher’s soap dispenser (a totally appropriate task for a four-year-old) to choosing my clothes in the morning (hello, tank top with ski pants? Not gonna happen). She cooks meals, which are really more marshmallows and prunes floating in a sea of soy milk than, say, recipes resembling anything remotely balanced. She sweeps the floor and even manages to get some of the grit and dried peas into the trashcan. And she does windows! With a half bottle of spray and a sponge.

Seriously, though. I love that she wants to be helpful. It’s sweet. It’s wonderful. It just takes a lot of patience on my part. In some ways, it takes more fortitude than it does to deal with Milo, who wants nothing to do with rinsing dishes or folding laundry. Somehow, nagging a child who has no desire to do chores is easier than gently guiding a child who does.

I always find myself stuck on that hamster wheel of justwantingtodoitmyselfanddoitfast. And why can’t she just leave me alone and let me scrub? Why do I actually have to teach her? Why can’t I just zone out and sort socks?

I constantly try to remember that showing her how to carefully scoop up spilled yogurt rather than smearing it like finger paint across the tabletop is not a hassle, but an instructional opportunity.

In the meantime, I’ll try to be okay with marshmallow soufflés and windows streakier than cheap highlights from a box.

But I draw the line at tank tops and ski pants.