My Story

About four years ago I wrote a paper for my MFA about my son, Jacob. He is a mixture of poetry and chaos. He is the kid that will run into the ice-cold ocean without hesitation. He is my grumpy-hoodie-wearing, grab-all-the-groceries-from-my-car-in-one-trip-kid. He is the kid who may not want to talk before school, but never leaves the house without saying, “love you.” We may approach life differently, but every day I see myself as well as his father in that kid. I am fiercely in love with that boy. He was the first to hear my heart beat from the inside. 

The life lesson I have learned about my son is: the difference between poetry and chaos is cadence. It’s how you time things, how you shape things, how you let things rest for a bit. Which is also, a lot like making bread.

There are some mean people in this world. People who feel better when they judge or make other people feel inferior. People who feel they are entitled to say or do what they want when they want to unleash their misplaced anger on others.

I have had enough life experience to nod my head or acknowledge position, to do the right thing and to show kindness, and then there is that time when you are just done. And, that is when it involves my children.

I am all about “it takes a village.” I expect people who love my children to admonish them, if necessary. My friends know they are my fill in- that is a relationship based on trust and time. They have invested in my children’s lives, know who they are and who their Mom wants them to be. It is part of family, grafted or blood. We take care of each other.

I understand that I am far from the perfect parent and that I have made mistakes. Those are the things I replay in my mind, the “Should I have…” or the “Maybe if I didn’t…” But the bottom line is, I knew what it meant to have children before I had them, and I am a key player, not a sideliner. From single parenting as a result of divorce to now single parenting as my ex has passed, I am in this game. This long, exhausting, but ever so rewarding game of parenthood.

I tell my kids that you don’t stop loving or expecting or protecting because they get older and more responsible. It just doesn’t turn off. I never turns off.

So, when my child gets verbally lambasted whether he/she deserved correction from another adult or not, I am ever impressed when he/she does the right thing. When they show respect, follow instruction, chose the right path, I think, “Well all right, I have done a good job after all.”

However;

I have to say this, because as a mom, I may not have done the right thing if I had been there to see it happen.

I might have said all the things I think in my head but filter on a good day.

Maybe, I would have verbally leveled that person like they did my kid, and they could deal with the aftermath.

I might have even enjoyed it.

I don’t think Mama Bears look back at the people who put their cubs in danger and feel remorse.

Every day as an educator, I  ask myself, “How would I want a teacher to treat my kids in this situation?” If you are lucky enough to have had amazing teachers for your children, my bet is, they ask themselves the same question. That isn’t a skill taught in college, but some people who spend time with developing hearts and minds know enough to know be a guide, or a mentor, or even a role model. They step out of themselves to see the perspective of another before acting.

And then, as a parent, you know your children will encounter the garden variety ass, who feels entitled to “parent” your child. They like the way it feels when they reduce someone else’s kid to where they think he or she should be.

Especially, when they look and see that you aren’t around to see you aren’t there to see this behavior? You know the type. Sadly, me too.

Transition to bread for a moment: I know bread is evil. I got the memo. It has carbs and gluten and essentially destroys the universe. Blah, blah. So do mean people.

Here’s the beauty of bread. You take yeast and water and create life. You add flour, oil, salt. You stir and knead and move and flip it over and pound and then carefully place it into an oiled bowl. You lovingly run a clean cloth under hot water, wring it out, and fold it over the bread. You place it somewhere warm. You let it rise.  You knead it again and allow it to rise a second time. And then, you bake perfection.

So, when my son asked me to make focaccia after supper one night, and even found the recipe on-line to do make it happen, I stayed up late to coach the baker I didn’t know existed in my kid.

We used Anne Burnell’s recipe from the food network. Simple-salted dough that is doused in olive oil and set to rise in two sessions, dimpled with finger holes, and baked to a golden brown.

As a mom, I can’t tell you the joy of watching my son follow the directions, and to see him knead the bread and actually like the cadence of kneading the flour and the dough on the board. As a baker, who does use the kitchen for therapy, I am more than happy to know he too will have this outlet, should he choose.

We didn’t need to make bread. I have bread. What we did need, was time together. Time to create poetry out of chaos.

It was well past my bedtime when the focaccia came out of the oven and I admit we did not wait for it to cool before I cut into it.

I know dipping focaccia in olive oil and sea salt and cracked pepper around ten thirty at night is a bad dietary choice. I know it is not calorie friendly. I know all of the things and why it was a bad idea.

But sometimes, you stand in the kitchen with your son who has been through some stuff, and you eat the bread he baked because it is a celebration of what he can do. To create something amazing in the midst of brokenness. You embrace the poetry of your kid and rip off a piece of golden salty amazingness. You leave the dishes on the counter and you talk. And you thank God for the moment you have been able to capture in your heart.

I ride my kids hard. I am always the tough parent, just by reality dictating that I must be the consequence giver and the line toe-er. I have rules and expectations because I am the mom. That is my job. MINE.

I feel like in a world where people feel compelled and entitled to spout their verbal garbage, (can I get an amen?) our kids should at least have a way to combat the wounds inflicted. Bullies come in all sizes. Some even smile at you when they say hello.

All that to say, I am glad my kids know that even when the outside world can be unkind, they can create and make beautiful things. If I have taught them to respect people, to follow rules, to be kind to others, and even bake bread, they too can make poetry out of chaos.

I don’t think people intentionally hurt, or at least I would like to believe it, but I am wrong. Some people are really that ugly on the inside. And while as a grown up I know it’s really their issues, I can’t help but wonder. I can’t protect my kids from everything, but God help you if it warrants my stepping in. I am raising children in an imperfect world, as an imperfect parent, but my love is strong. My love is big, and hopefully, my kids know I have their back.

With Momma love, and perfect bread, the world can be a better place.

I hope you enjoy this recipe, and as always, thank you for coming to the table!

Chrissy

Click below for a printable recipe

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