This morning, while all five children—home from school on winter break—frolicked around and I tried to clear off a spot on the far side of my kitchen counter where I might fold laundry, Kimani jumped from the kitchen table to the counter and, in a split second, threw my bread machine onto the floor... smashing it.
I was so mad. I chastised her and promptly plopped her in her crib for a time out. And then I proceeded to attempt self-pity and tried to think of someone I could be jealous of... someone whose child does not daily earn the title of "The Master of Disaster."
No more fresh bread, damn it.
And the very first thing that popped into my mind was Kevin Carter’s Pulitzer prize-winning photo...
No, I cannot be jealous of that child’s mother.
But that didn’t stop me from wanting to feel like shit so I put the starving children of this world out of my mind and tried again. And images from Kimani’s school came crashing down on me... beautiful little girls just like her who cannot climb on tables and counters, who cannot walk into their mother’s arms...
"Ok," I said to myself, "it was just a bread machine" (this time). Despite the first tingles of guilt, I still whined to myself, "but couldn’t it be easier?"
Surely she could be like... surely I could be jealous of... think think think
I can’t show you pictures of what I saw then... a procession of little faces, Kimani's friends—some forever infants, some toddlers, some four year olds like her—all of whom break bread in Heaven now... each one I remember so clearly, and their mamas... each one so undeserving of the loss they suffered.
What the hell is a broken bread machine compared to that?
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