My bloody finger was now wrapped in a paper toweling and twisted tight with a rubber band. Then just when I thought I had things under control, I saw dinner was burning on the stove.
Working quickly, I grabbed a wooden spoon with my good hand and began chiseling the bottom of the pan.
Oh well, I told myself. A little burnt taco meat never hurt. And besides, I had to get Kiddo off to bed soon, so I couldn’t afford anymore delays.
Despite the fact that I could feel my pulse through my finger, I managed to chop some tomatoes and shred some lettuce and cheese. I then added some corn shells to the toaster oven before turning back to help Kiddo open the remainder of the gifts.
So far so good. We had twenty minutes to eat, brush teeth, and go to bed.
As Kiddo ran around enjoying “them’s” new gifts, I turned around to see the taco shells toasting to a crisp.
Moving as quickly as I could, I used my one good hand to yank each shell from the oven.
AHHH! Two shells broke, and now my fingertips were burned.
Doing my best to stay positive, I plated the shells so the cracked ones could come to me and all of the burnt sides were facing down.
I then helped Kiddo get situated at the table and positioned the pan of taco meat in front of my place setting.
All I had to do yet was grab our plates. But as I set the wooden spoon down into the pan so it was ready for serving when I returned, the moment I walked away, the pan tipped over, the spoon went sailing, and taco meat went flying everywhere.
For the love of God!
My first reaction was to “fly off the handle” much like the spoon, but instead of yelling my little head off, I stayed silent and took it all in.
As I washed up the chili powder stained mess with each of my charred fingers, I looked up at Kiddo, happily devouring my disaster of a meal.
So this is motherhood, I thought.
It’s clumsy, it’s messy, and it’s exhausting.
Yet no matter how you slice it, it is a gift from God indeed!
(Note: For confidentiality reasons, “Kiddo” and “them” refers to our foster child.)