Motherhood. Motherhood blankets around me like a familiar fragrance. The scent of low self esteem mixed with over confidence, the uncertainties of direction and vocation flood my mind with images and sentences, while my arms struggle to carry the large paper bag full of groceries, I purchased as if with a blindfold on. What am I to make with all of this? How am I to prepare with these tiny tinctures, questionable edibles, and elegant fixings? Oh there are days, hours, and weeks in which I travel through the day as if on cruise control. Am I enjoying the scenery? Do we ever? Instead, I am fussing and fixing. I am planning and signing. I am answering and demanding. I am apologizing and excusing. I am showering and I am bathing. I am feeding and I am wiping. I am referring and I am wheeling and dealing. I am not a gambler, but I am taking risks beyond measure. There are choices, voices, and stirrings to prevent burnings. For me to sit back and relax seems so far from my reach. My eyes fail to stay alert, they are closing without my knowledge. When they open, it is a new day, but the scenery behind me will once again be a chaotic blur like a drunken stupor, but it’s not. It is motherhood at her finest. It is me in the refiner’s fire. It is me in the lions den with three little kids. It is me in the greatest chronicle of my life.
Ever catch yourself saying something over and over again? I am not so much meaning profanity when things aren’t going accordingly to plan or plans, but I have said at least 4 times in the last couple of days to 1, “Well, that’s just how the cookie crumbles.” Where on earth did this quote emerge from within the many random facets of my subconscious?
There is never a dull, a quite for too long moment in motherhood. I know. I understand. Three little ones never stopping for air just causes me to become beside myself. There are moments when I no longer recognize me. Am I laughing at a Disney show with Vin Diesel? Wait Vin Diesel is in a Disney movie-when did this happen?
Despite the crazy stresses of life, finances, lack of groceries, clothes with holes, stained carpets, chipped glasses, broken drawers, and not enough spoons for everyone, this is just the how the cookie is crumbling these days. When I feel stressed, I bake. When I bake, I eat. Let’s just say there has been a lot of baking and eating and observing the unrealistic amount of crumbs on the table.
The perfect storm, could it be coming to its final end? I am not sure. It still remains poking its ugly face here and there, but yesterday important discoveries have began to wash up from the shores. Are there causalities of innocence being taken down by a recess oppressor? I keep praying for more understanding. More revelation. More assurance as this storm remains steadfast against the windows of our house, I diligently try to remain focus. I am looking through this storm for the face of truth which sets free.
Wheat Free Chocolate Chip Cookies
(Inspired by Post Punk Kitchen)
1 ¾ cups almond flour
½ teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
¾ cups coconut sugar
1/3 cup coconut oil, melted
1 Tablespoon flax meal
1/4 cup almond milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
3/4 cup chocolate chips
How To Play:
Preheat oven to 375 F. Sift together flour, baking soda and salt. In a small mixing bowl, whisk together flax meal and almond milk. Add sugar and stir, add oil and vanilla and whisk vigorously until all ingredients are emulsified (about a minute).Mix wet ingredients into dry, fold in chocolate chips. Drop batter by the tablespoon onto ungreased baking sheet, leaving and 1 1/2 inches of space in-between cookies. Bake for 10 -12 minutes.
This betrayal hit me in the face. I could taste the blood in my mouth as I drove away from the tennis court. You standing- defeated and caught, with your shoulders weighed down by the hopeless guilt. The “not wanting to hurt me”, but knowing very well it was going to be a painful road to recovery. The charcoal tennis racket in your hand was a symbol of the anger and hatred of this situation. Staring back through the reviewer mirror, I made my escape from the humiliation and from the Emo girl with the fake English accent. Her blood rush, head rush, hush –hush, next crush, crushed me against the wall. A wall I thought no longer existed, resurfaced itself as a bridge. A bridge like the patriarchal artifact destroyed in Remagen, no longer to be in the shadows of the Rhein, but to be exposed as a sign of hope, hope that comes after a cruel battle. I drove stunned. I was lied to. Deceit the wicked foe! I shouted. There were so many questions left open for me that September day. A 9-11, however the answers were written underneath the bridge, as fragments and debris washed about my ankles. Pain is a puzzle to solve and a puzzle to step over. A ghost, a figure from your past, was what I became that day. You said you knew me, because I was so much like you. But if you really knew me, how could you lie right to my face?
Image Credit: Max Liebermann