As I may have mentioned, this is my weekend for Christmas baking. So why did I say to myself, “Get the peanut butter balls made and in the refrigerator to chill, and then take your shower,” only to find myself heading to the shower, leaving the makings for peanut butter balls on the kitchen table? Why did that ill-timed bathing then lead to a thorough scrubbing and doctoring of the shower walls and floor, the sinks, and the toilet? (And why am I now blogging about this instead of making the peanut butter balls?)
Because I have domestic A.D.D. (And my teacher — me — may be just a tad weak at enforcing discipline.)
Sigh. And rolling 150 peanut butter balls — alone — is not my idea of fun. I miss my helpful children.
On the plus side, I did manage to bake 14 pans of caramel brownies — all while thinking of the high school football state final I was missing last night. Two hours to weigh and unwrap caramels. (Thank you, Kraft, for changing the size of your bags of caramels and thoroughly messing up my baking life.) Six hours to bake fourteen pans of heavenly sinfulness, two pans at a time, using two ovens… despite being distracted by motherly musings.
At first, the weather piqued by concerns for the football game and the travel home afterwards. It poured at our house for hour after hour, thunder rumbling and lightening flashing. Another city had a tornado warning. I had to mentally force myself to recognize that both situations — the game and the travel — were outside of my control, but inside God’s control. More than once.
I heard nothing from my friend or my son before half time, though both had promised to keep me posted. I figured the game was intense. It was: 20-19 at the half, our team was up. After that, I got timely updates from my friend Diana, and the score remained close through the third quarter — in fact, the opposing team led at one point, and I thought to myself, “What if this is like Whoville? Where one little voice made all the difference? What if I am that one voice that would cheer our team to victory and I am in the kitchen instead of at the game?”
(Nothing like a little self-imposed torture.)
Since I couldn’t cheer the boys so they could hear my Jojo “Yopp!” (the final little sound in Horton Hears a Who that puts the noise over the threshold, allowing Horton to hear and save the Whos), I petitioned God, knowing He likely didn’t have a favorite between the two Christian schools playing but figuring He would do something… and the score started changing in our favor, bit by bit. I baked, checked my texts, baked, checked my texts, and prayed. End result: 56-33, with most of the gain in the fourth quarter.
And then it was the wait for the my son to arrive home. Which he did, safely, about 3:22 a.m.
I slept somewhat fitfully, mostly trusting but waiting until that moment (two hours after I had expected my son to return). God is amazingly good. (He would have been amazingly good even if tragedy had befallen the travelers and the team had lost, but I am thankful I can rejoice on all counts.) Today my son is here (but not helping), the game was a delightful win, and I have nothing to distract me from baking — except myself.
I must get back to it.