Wednesday, With a Side of the Mondays

Y'all.

I don't know what today's problem is, but it seriously has one. And apparently it has that problem with me.

Last night, feeling virtuous, I prepped sourdough sandwich bread (because eldest has decreed that he doesn't like the more artisanal version - I suspect because it has a lovely, chewy crust and elder detests crusts of all kinds. Side note: I have never served him something sans crust or suggested that it was okay to skip it. So this isn't a result of coddling. It's just him and his weird texture preferences. So fine.) The sandwich bread is still tasty and, honestly, probably more useful (because it does make slightly nicer grilled cheese for example, because it's a better shape and has more consistent slice sizes.

But then, as I eyed Pedro (my starter) in preparation for sticking him back into the fridge, I thought to myself, "Self, there's still quite a lot of happy, bubbling starter there. Why not make something else, too?"

As I had no good rebuttal for said question, I spent a little time considering options and finally settled on cinnamon rolls (having discarded several focaccia options that I will want to try eventually.) 

So I prepped that dough. And both rose happily overnight on my counter.

This morning, I prepped the sandwich loaf for baking and then moved on to the cinnamon rolls. At first, it looked like they were going to work a treat.

But yeah, an hour (90 minutes?) later, when the loaf had happily risen an inch over the top of its pan, the cinnamon rolls still looked mostly the same as they had when I cut them and put them in theirs.

I baked the loaf.

No change in the rolls. 

So okay, fine. Whatever. I baked them.

They are, to quote Mr. Darcy, "tolerable, I suppose."

I mean, I ate one. The boys each ate one. 

We all agree they're fine.

We'll have to see what hubby has to say, but I hope he likes them because I have many left and I neither want nor need to be the one who sends them out to the universe.

In addition to baking woes, the beginning strains of puberty continue to harass youngest, making his ADHD even more fun than it was before (self-regulation of emotions was already a huge challenge? Now? Hulk Rage reigns supreme. And not Smart Hulk. Animal Raging Hulk. Hulk Smash Hulk.) So statements like, "Let's get our school taken care of" are met with...rage. Often with a side of rage.

We saw his psych yesterday, so are upping one dose in hopes that with his recent growth, the new level will help re-shackle Mr. Hyde.

Hoping against hope with that, I was poking about at horse riding camps for July (because elder has two week-long activities in July and I'd like to have younger gainfully employed during same so I don't have to hear about how unfaiiiiirrrrr it all is.) And of course, the stable I was hoping for (because it's near and we've been there before and they seemed to get ADHD) is doing every-other-week camps in July. 

On the opposite schedule that I need.

I mean, compared to children dying of famine or testicular cancer, these are all minor issues. But yeah. On a day when I started things out with an email from my sister (hahahaaaaaa...her 401(k) company sent the information I need to her, so Dad (who possesses her phone) forwarded it to me. Really not the jab of grief I wanted to use to motivate me in the a.m.) it all just kind of feels like piling on.