recipe for comfort

sleeping with bread






stale bread: It’s the same old cry of sorrow. Being home for years on end leads to a perpetual cycle of battles with a similar series of issues. I battle my own motivation (or lack thereof). I battle six strong-willed children who constantly push the boundaries because they know, sooner or later, exhaustion, inattention, or mercy will grant them a one time reprieve. Sometimes, I just get so sick of the battleground. It is the sheer volume of days that makes it seem more intolerable. I let myself slip into an attitude of resigned tolerance. The guilt over succumbing to the familiar patterns threatens to cause a downward spiral.

fresh bread: Like the spark of newborn love, I long to feel passion – even amid the daily routines. I see the joy in a kindergartener’s discoveries, the elation of the simple, and a smile plays at the corners of my mouth.

french toast: Stale bread is good for something. When making French toast, the best bread for the job is a thick, crusty sort with just a bit of staleness teasing at the surface. If it weren’t for the monotonous routines, I would miss the milestones of maturation playing out before me. Time goes by in a heartbeat. Before long, I will look back on even the most mundane of days with a wistful sigh. Lord, help me remember that in the well-worn trenches of the front lines.

As R sits in the living room, enjoying a popcorn snack, help me to see past the crumbs and spills to take joy in the interpersonal relationships she is learning to foster by “sharing” with her doll. Popcorn with a naked Barbie! There’s nothing else quite like it.