I went to see Frost/Nixon today and ruined the bread. Now, I know what you're thinking after reading the title, but sadly, it's nothing like that.
I played "stay-at-home-mom hooky" today and went to the movies. Frost/Nixon by the way was great, well-acted and exceeded my expectations--especially for being a movie from a play (if you're in doubt, see my post about Doubt). And, I should say, since we're on the subject, quite PG in the sex area; alluded to but not directly mentioned or shown.
Anyway, I got back from the movies with enough time to put some dough together for bread. I've been baking instead of buying bread for the past few months. I figured I'd bake a loaf today since I'm doing a short workshop at the Arden over the next few days and won't be around.
Everything went as planned and I was the multi-tasking queen! Bread was in the oven rising as per the recipe, and I felt pretty damn good about myself...
Aren't I just the bomb? I can bake bread, take care of the family, and stage manage...I rock!
And then my kids came home from school.
My daughter had a bad "pre-teen" day at school: worst runner in the class, friends yelled at her at recess, etc. So I comforted her while my son felt neglected and pouted. It's difficult to deal with my son because he doesn't like to listen to me. He'll listen to Brian but when it comes to me, he likes a fight.
So, we had a fight, and he ended up in his room crying at the top of his lungs.
I left him there for a few moments thinking I could get a couple things done for the workshop and then set the bread for a second rise. Perhaps it sounds cruel to leave my son in his room but when he gets to the point of crying like this, it's better to let him calm down a bit before engaging him again. Most things have to be on his terms--which is probably why we butt heads, I like my terms.
As I am about to print a schedule for the workshop, my daughter enters with two books under her arm, "Mom," she says, "I don't know what this word means."
She has dog-eared the pages.
I bring her into the kitchen so I can tend to the bread when she drops the bomb and shows me the word: SEX.
I eye the half full bottle of wine, pour myself a glass and have The Talk. It's a down and dirty talk about penises, menstruation, uterus', vaginas and sperm. She's thoroughly disgusted at the end.
I'm elated by her reaction.
The bread, however, rose too much, and after punching down and baking, now looks meager and anemic.
The moral of the story is probably: Do not play stay-at-home-mom hooky. But the one I'm taking away from it is: Aren't you glad you didn't have three kids? Because one of them would have been severely neglected.
At least the movie was good.