Rise and Fall of the Third Bread Loaf

I put the bread in the oven to rise.
It was supposed to save me time.
Often it works well - slightly warm with the oven light on, safe from poorly aimed nerf gun bullets, in position to start baking without any jostling.
The ONLY thing that can go wrong is that I forget to turn the oven on to bake about 40 minutes later.
You get one guess what went wrong.

Well, about an hour and twenty minutes - and a meal, basic cleanup, and a gentle shake of the baby to get all the rice out of his shirt folds - later, I remembered the rising bread.  A harried look in the oven told me the yeast had indeed done its job.  The wonderful combination of home-ground flour, real maple syrup, butter and salt within those four bread pans had melded into a huge dome of yeasty goodness in the oven.  And then it had fallen, oozing over the sides.  Dejected and abandoned.  Ignored in its prime.  I started muttering unpleasantly under my breath.
Well, I wrenched the oven temperature up, growling about the my horrid lack of multitasking ability.  Dutifully, the carbon dioxide was released and the gluten structure was changed into a solid.  But I couldn't reverse the yeast's immutable time schedule.  That ship had already sailed.
It was supposed to be our bread for the week.  Our french toast bread.  Our grilled cheese sandwich bread.  Our fresh from the oven with a healthy clump of butter bread.  Our cheaper than store bought bread.  Our homemade good bread.
It least it smelled good.  No, it smelled great.  I think heaven will have whiffs of fresh baked bread wafting through its bright streets.  And there, you will be able to eat it and not worry if it goes straight to your thighs.  Here, it was little more than tantalizing aromatherapy, but it looked miserably inappropriate to release such a delightful scent.  Heaven was not the place that came to my mind when I looked at it.

The pain - au bon pain.

I pulled the kids out of the bath.  I ran downstairs and pulled the deflated bread balloons from the oven. I ran back upstairs and got everyone in pajamas.  (Hint - this is how mommas can stay slim.)  They cheerfully tromped downstairs, not responsible for a anything bigger than a matchbox car.  Mom, who felt at the moment like she was responsible for the great calamity of household maintenance gone awry, glowered as she gathered up wet towels to mop the bathroom floor.  This staple of supreme homemaking - fresh wheat bread - was proof of mom's supreme inabilities.  Mom grumbled to herself in the third person and stepped on grains of rice on the dining room floor, arms full of wet towels and sandbox-humbled clothes.

"I waaant some!"  The three year old begged.  He grabbed a warm loaf and ran into the living room with the six year old at his heels.  "Ouch! Hot!"  He dropped it on the rug and ran back in.  "Can I have butter on it?"
"Can I have my own whole bread?"  The five year old protectively patted a loaf he'd singled out.
"My! My! Maamamamammamamamaa!" The littlest brother demanded, stretching around the bigger boys to touch the precious treasure.

This waste of yeast and time, this glut of extra dishes to wash, this afternoon project that highlighted my ineptitude, was to them - still bread.
"Ok, ok," I pulled out a bread knife.  It was depressing to cut my absurdly failed monument to health and happiness.  They crowded around for a bedtime snack as I squashed it down with my hand and hacked in.  Feeble crumbs tumbled from the loose slices as I sawed away.  It wasn't pretty and I wasn't about to let it to pretend to be.

mouthfuls.

I saw butter smear across the little one's clean cheek, posting crumbs by his earlobe.  The five year old stuffed in a slice and reached for another.  "Mmm." came the muffled satisfaction behind the mouthful.  The three year old's slice disappeared as a chubby hand swiped it off his plate.  A scuffle ensued, more butter imprinting the linoleum.  "Mo-om!  He stole mine!" The indignant older child protested as his young antagonist squealed, spewing greasy crumbs. The six year old draped his lanky little self over the the rocking chair to observe the rioting below him, chewing languidly.  I buttered another and handed it off.  They quieted, and munched contentedly.  After a few more buttery minutes, I wiped them down and shooed them off to bed.
They say one man's trash is another man's treasure.  I saw a mess of failed motherhood.  My children, however, went happily to bed with warm full tummies, sucking butter-smooth thumbs, breathing deeply the lingering aroma of warm wheat.

It is humbling to admit my inadequacy as a homemaker.  It is further humbling to be taught by kids with a vocabulary of a few dozen words that I'm looking at life from the wrong angle.  Several feet closer to the ground, the bread looked a lot more appealing, apparently.  And my reputation as good mommy was still preserved.  As if they even measure me by what I do.
Sometimes, my world is far more pleasant without the bifocals of age and reason.  Sometimes I'm so glad they see beyond my mistakes to the wholesome presliced goodness that my heart longed to give them.
Sometimes, love is in the mess of crumbs and butter.
I'll contemplate it while I mop the floor.