Life

I must confess, I am not a coffee drinker. I mean, I USED to be [back when I was working and a caffeine high was the only thing that got me through the service. I can see why alot of kitchen staff end up on amphetamines] but I am not anymore.

I kicked my coffee habit shortly after I quit my job. It was hard, but I ended up pregnant shortly thereafter so it ended up for the best I suppose [plus the smell of coffee when I was pregnant with Amy made me heave].

Lately though, I find myself craving a coffee. Not so much for the caffeine (although sure, a boost would be nice) but for the ritual.

I want to be able to sit and sip and read a paper in peace. I want to feel like I have 10 minutes peace before I have to do anything. Dammit, I want to drink a whole drink without a short person asking for a sip every 30 seconds.

Amy – ‘Sip?’

Me – ‘No sweetheart, it’s coffee’

Amy – ‘Please sip? Please?’

Me – ‘It’s coffee. You can’t have a sip.’

Amy – ‘Please? PLEASE? SIP! Imawannasipnowplease’

Me – ‘Go bug Daddy’

Amy – loses her shit and tantrums.

See how that conversation went? See? That is how all my conversations go with Amy at the moment. Because no matter what I have, she wants it.

Sandwiches? Are all for Amy. I may hold them, until she decides that I am not allowed to. I may *possibly* be allowed to eat the crusts. No matter if I maker her her own IDENTICAL sandwich, she wants mine. Her is ‘yucky’.

Chocolate milk? All Amy’s. If I share one sip I have just consented to having the entire drink drunk.

It’s the same with everything.

And really, I don’t mind all that much. I ration what she can and can’t share, I don’t drink things I can’t share while she is awake and I set all the sandwiches on my plate and let her steal a few. I negotiate.

But some days? I really REALLY crave the ritual of sitting down to sip at a coffee. Unbothered.

Just to have 10 minutes that is completely mine where I don’t feel guilty for not sharing. For not doing something else instead. For not neglecting everything else that needs doing.

[I need to do the dishes. Dammit, they can wait, they won’t multiply. Fuck, I think they multiplied. The toys need picking up. Maybe I can scoot them all into the corner. No, that won’t work, Amy will just scoot them back out. I will do it in 5 minutes. The washing machine just finished. The dryer is beeping at me. We are nearly out of bread. I need to work out what we are having for dinner. The dishes need washing. Amy needs her bum changing. We should go outside later. I need to do….]

And somehow, even if I mange 10 minutes, I emerge feeling like I spent the whole 10 minutes doing stuff anyway.

I feel like I am losing myself.

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First you need to decide a few days in advance that making bread doesn’t sound like a half bad idea. Flour is cheap (ish), labour is cheap (mostly) and the bread from the supermarket is starting to taste like crap.

[Is it the cheap ass bread I buy? Or my pregnant taste buds….]

Then you need to shop for ingredients. I may be a whizz in the kitchen, but my speciality lately seems to be roast meat and the occasional soup. Not so much of a baking whizz.

Yeast. Bread flour. Ummmmmm, baking powder maybe? Get home and realise that castor sugar would have been a better option, but whatever. Bygones.

Then you need to actually decide to bake bread on a day when you have most of all your time free.

You do not want to do this the day that your toddler hasn’t had any sleep and is only going to scream [because dammit Mummy, I want to sit in the container with the flour NOW].

You do not want to do this the day after you have a big bleed and have to go to bed early. [Damn pregnancy. Every day is UNLIKE the last!]

You do not want to do this on a day [or a few of them] when your morning sickness may have decided to come back.

But whatever. I said I felt like cooking bread, not that I wasn’t going to be stupid about it.

Somewhere between playing with the yeast and the warm water and actually getting a dough ball to knead, Amy lost her shit. She cried, she screamed, she tantrummed, she even tried to hit me.

I did try [oh lord did I try] to get her to help me knead, but she kept eating my dough. Hmmmph.

Naptime was called for, no matter that she hasn’t napped for nearly 2 months now. Nap time was successful and I thought maybe my head might not explode today.

[Although I still have floury footprints to clean off my kitchen floor. Don’t ask]

Once the bread has been kneaded, you need to stick it into a warm [but not hot] place to rise. Like near the fire, but behind the fire gate. So far? All the animals have tried at least once to eat my damn bread dough.

And then comes the waiting. Waiting waiting waiting. I almost regretted putting the toddler to sleep. At least if she was awake I could spend all my time trying to not let her poke holes in the cling wrap.

Once she woke up however? I regretted wishing that she was asleep. In fact, I would have paid good money for her to go back to sleep.

Eventually the dough was ready to pop into the oven (narrowly missing out on toddler finger holes poked into it).

And the smell? The smell made everything worth it. Even Amy discovering how to get into the flour bin didn’t seem so bad with the smell of fresh baked bread wafting over everything.

Just call me Martha fucking Stewart.

We are going to studiously ignore the mess left in the kitchen and eat warm bread. Mmmmmmm.

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The 25 minutes I spent watching Yo Gabba Gabba this morning?

That’s time I will never ever be able to get back.

And is it just me, or does this guy look like a dildo?

Yes, I know the arms would get in the way, but still. A dildo, no?

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