Cracked.

The new job has been a trial-by-fire, to put it very, very mildly.

And although the task of completely overhauling and re-inventing prescriptive, special education programs for eighteen challenging students is MORE than enough for me to adjust to...

My poor, neglected little family has had a lot to adjust to, too.

Mummy leaves the house before anyone else is up-- heck, before the SUN is up.

And, when Mummy comes to pick them up at school in the afternoon, she is, more often than not, tired, stressed, and overwhelmed by the prospect of a full night's work ahead of her.

No matter how hard I try to achieve some sort of balance in our life here at home, I always feel like I am at arm's length from my children.  If not physically (barricaded in my office, surrounded by mountains of books and a printer spitting out papers faster than I can collect them off the floor), then certainly emotionally.

For weeks, now, my new students haven't been out of my head, not even for a few minutes.  I even dream about them at night-- stress nightmares that I hope never come to full fruition.

We're scraping by.

And sadly, we seem to be eating way too much pre-made meals.  Frozen entrees from the grocery store used to be a last resort around here, and although I started out with a cheery "make-one-freeze-one!" mentality, the reality of my ridiculous schedule has gotten in the way.

Mercifully, my mother stepped in one night last week.  Not only did she bring us the most delicious almond chicken casserole...  she brought BREAD.

HOME-MADE bread.  Bread made from a recipe that originated with my great-grandfather, and handed down and perfected by his wife, his children and grandchildren.

My mother's beautiful whole-grain bread is a thing of beauty, and is good enough to bring tears to your eyes when it's lightly toasted and slathered in butter.  It's at its finest as a summertime sandwich, enclosing slices of the freshest garden tomato, still warm from the vine.

My girlies went into ecstasies over the bread that night.  (The chicken went down pretty well, too, needless to say.)

Child Number One:  (with her mouth still full)  I swear, Gramma bread has something ADDICTIVE in it.

Me:  Well, certainly.  All that whole wheat and bran...  I don't know how she crams all that good stuff in, and gets the loaves to rise up to be so LIGHT.

Child Number One:  (with a meaningful stare)  Nope.  It's not that.  I think she puts DRUGS in it, or something.  Kind of like the coffee at Tim Horton's...  Just enough to keep you wanting MORE...

Me:  (roaring)  That's hilarious.  Your gramma wouldn't have the first CLUE where to get illegal drugs to put in that bread.  Although...  it would certainly bring a new meaning to the phrase, "CRACKED WHEAT".

We chuckled until crumbs rained down onto the floor, just as Wee Three skidded into the kitchen and wanted to know what we were laughing about.

We explained in as "age-appropriate" a manner as we could.

She squinched down her eyebrows thoughtfully, and noodled for a moment, before she had her big "lightbulb moment":

Wee Three:  I KNOW WHERE GRAMMA GETS THE STUFF!!  She drives out to COUNTRY BULK!!

Crack...  WHEAT, that is.

Whatever it is that's in there, folks...  it sure is GOOD.