I began by taking the Little Miss on a long walk -- settling for both of us. On the way home I bought bread. I bought bread. I don't do that very often, preferring to do without if I don't have time to bake right away. It had, however, been days. Leftovers were slim and Gary -- who relies on bread for the backbone of a lunch -- was making quick work of the crackers I keep on hand for toddler snack emergencies. Toddler snack emergencies, incidentally, were up. That loaf of store-bought multigrain eliminated the most oppressive task on my list -- not the hardest or the one that would take the longest, but the one that emanated the most guilt. It tasted like freedom with jam.
Instead of baking bread, I baked cookies. With help. This undertaking -- letting the Little Miss help in the kitchen -- was a first and it was spectacularly successful. I held her so she could look into the mixer at the butter and sugar. I passed her the filled measuring cups of flour and oats. She dumped them into the bowl. Before I knew it, she was sitting on the counter spooning dry ingredients into the mixer with a spoon and discovering that chocolate chips (previously unknown to her) taste good. Then I taught her how to lick the beater.
Between the bread and the cookies, I felt like I had gotten something right for once. That sense of accomplishment has persisted for a couple of days now. Do you ever feel this way?