I turn dough over onto my table worn slick and tired by the beat of plastic spoons and the bottles of nail polish spilling over and the bread kneading on its cracked surface. There’s flour everywhere but especially on me, and the tv is too loud and the girls are too bicker-y and the baby is trying to climb up my legs and I’m kneading dough.
And I wonder: how in the world did Ma Ingalls do all this? Did she make bread in the quiet before the sun rises and the non-stop pulsing of children begins? Did she ever throw up her hands and want to quit? What did any of them do, these pioneer women who managed all these households where everything was made from scratch and there was no playground at Chic-fil-a to escape to and laundry had to be hung to dry and then ironed and then put away? What did they do about the arguing and the messes and the complaining and the tired?
Or are we just fooling ourselves? Have we created worlds that are so unnatural and so hyped up and so tricked out that we can’t fathom a world of simplicity and routine that exists just for survival?
I knead dough and turn it over and work it smooth and cover it with a dishcloth. The baby has moved on to the leftover pop-tart on the floor under the table and the girls have settled on some stupid sitcom I should make them turn off and the table needs cleaning before lunch can be served.
But I settle into a chair with a forgotten cup of coffee and listen for a moment. To the rhythm of this crazy life.
It’s Five Minute Friday everyone! Grab a laptop, a pen, an iphone, whatever and join up!