Oh, this was impossible. It's three hours to shabbas. "Coco-pop, you need to move over. I can't reach the cabinet."
"But I'm making challa! Can I have sprinkles?"
"Challa doesn't--yes, here. Sprinkles. Just move over!"
"I'm gonna take it to my room." She takes her dough, her sprinkles, her cookie shapers, and her cup of flour and gets out of my hair.
It's just because my kitchen is so tiny, wherever they stand they are blocking something. It's a tiny kitchen, that's all. It's a coffin shaped, coffin sized, teeny little old crumbly kitchen, I think to myself as my relief mixes with guilt.
Today I woke up sad. It's my grandmother's unveiling today and of course I'm missing it. My editor didn't get back to me about a story, and it's always hard to start a new one when I don't know the fate of the last one. I miss my father like missing is a physical thing, and the kids room was an unbelievable wreck--and it's so hard for me to clean when we might be moving. It's silly, but it's something that's hard for me. Like I'm cleaning something that is already not mine.
Oh,and did I mention that the kids have all been waking up up a quarter to six in G-d's holy and freezing morning?
Yeah? Bears repeating, anyway.
And the dryer broke this morning, too.
Point is, I had a cupful, roomful, a coffin sized, coffin shaped kitchen roomful of excuses for why my daughters were sent to school today by a bleary-eyed mommy with no patience.
Did I do my best with the tools that I had at that point in time? Maybe.
But part of me knows that there will always be something. A small kitchen should not keep me from making challa with my daughter. A sad morning should not stop me from taking a deep breath, counting to ten and doing it right.
There will always be a way to excuse myself and take a backseat intead of grabbing the wheel.
Life is happening right now. And I need to be here to live it because it's short. Too short to waste on excuses.
I got an early start on lunch this morning. I poured the pasta into the collander in the sink, and a cloud of steam rose up and steamed my glasses. It all vanished; the sink, the pasta,my hands, the counter, my kitchen. Gone in one second, my tiny kitchen, my world.