I’ve never been much of a breadwinner. Heck, I’m not much of a bread baker, and possess neither the mixing nor measuring skills required to take home any ribbons from any country fair. My youngest son, however, thinks otherwise. In his eyes, I am not only a breadwinner; I am a bread champion.
His beliefs stem from one simple truth: for the last three years, I have been living a lie.
My deception started out small, as most lies do, but over time it expanded until it had doubled in size. I entered the soon-to-be-sticky situation with the best of intentions – as an innocent volunteer during bread-making day in my son’s third grade classroom. Ever since that fateful event, he has believed I have the ability to make bread. From scratch nonetheless.
Since I am an imperfect mom, I have done nothing to correct his misconception. There was only one way for me to pull off this magnificent – albeit dishonest – feat.
Not right away. At first I tried. I really tried to make bread with my own two hands, but all I got from my efforts was the equivalent of baked floury hockey pucks.
After numerous trials (and failures) I got tired of feeding my family inedible bread and did what no mom is ever supposed to do; I gave up. I bought a package of the frozen bread dough, baked it and served it up at suppertime. I wasn’t even planning on taking credit for the beautifully browned loaf of sustenance, but my son gazed at me with his big blue trusting eyes and said, “See mom, I knew you could learn to make bread if you tried hard enough. It’s just like you tell me about working hard at school.” Oh my.