Hmmm you are wondering...
What is so funny about a bowl of rising bread dough?
Well normally...nothing.
Except that it is in wayyyyyyy to small of a bowl.
As I watch my bread rise I get this uncomfortable feeling...
This prickly feeling on the back of my neck...
This strange affinity to the dough forms in my heart...a feeling of kinship...of sisterhood...
What could this be I wonder?
I instinctively stand up straighter...
I tighten my stomach muscles...
I adjust my waistband....
Then recognition dawns...
Oh No!
No it can't be...
It's mocking me...
I must turn away...
But I can't...
It is a metaphor...
A drooping, overstuffed metaphor...
One I can not even voice out loud...
Yet one I can't seem to tear my eyes from...
Till finally it sinks under the burden of its own weight, deflated, saggy...
It lies there wrinkled, no longer able to hold itself up for its underlying structure is shot.
I turn my head and shed a single tear...
After giving birth to 6 babies...
I am that dough.
That tired, wrinkled, saggy dough...
