Somewhere in the middle of the baking aisle, the romance and the reality collided. The flour dusting on Oliver’s nose turned into a bag of flour dumped all over the floor. The yeast packet turned into yeast lost because the water was too cold and it never activated. The sweet time with my boy turned into the frustrations of parenting. The gathering devolved from an I’m-perfectly-ok-with-child-energy-around-the-table vision to a let’s-just-get-through-this disappointment as the buzz of evening meals with lots of little people peppered my imagination. The airy quality of the loaves we were making fell flat. I couldn’t decide on meal accompaniments. Would Oliver take a nap that day and be good to go, or would he be unable to sleep and turn into a hot mess around 4:37pm? I wanted to open the bottle now. Forget it, I thought. It can’t work to host these things in this season of life. Just forget the whole thing.
The voice was quiet.
There’s a bottle in the pantry.
Sit. Eat. Drink. Do this in remembrance of ME.
©2016 Mindy Danylak