Jammy Toast & The Emotional Breakdown

Parenting: Where Frozen Bread Breaks You

It started, as most parenting crises do, with toast. Or, more accurately, the lack of it. No bread in the house for the 30th portion of jammy toast my kids had demanded in the last 14 hours. It was ten minutes before bedtime, and I told myself: This is fine. They’ll survive. They’re not even really hungry. But then came the guilt spiral: What if they are hungry? Am I a bad mum if I don’t comply with their toasty demands?

So I caved. I always cave.

I remembered the frozen bread in the freezer and thought, Perfect. Crisis averted. Except frozen bread doesn’t peel apart easily. The first four slices? Smooth sailing. But then came the fifth slice, the sixth, and my daughter, tiny dictator that she is, started screaming, “MORE JAMMY BREAD!” like some sort of toast-crazed badger.

And that’s when I broke. A small, pitiful cry escaped my lips. Not a dramatic, heaving sob…just a tiny, desperate sound from the corner of my soul that was quietly muttering, I can’t do this anymore.

Crumbs were everywhere. The noise was deafening. I was trying to peel apart a loaf of frozen bread like some sort of squishy bread archaeologist when my son, my sweet, emotionally intelligent son, looked at me and said, “It’s my fault.”

Let me tell you, nothing snaps you out of a bread-related breakdown faster than your child blaming themselves for your unraveling. I immediately dropped the frozen loaf (and maybe a few tears) and told him, “This is not your fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not even the toast’s fault.” Because you know what? Sometimes life is just loud, messy and completely ridiculous.

But while I was pouring my heart out to my son, my daughter had moved on. She’d turned the empty toast plates into drums and was gleefully banging them on the table. Crumbs had now transformed into a full-blown kitchen confetti explosion, and she was fucking thrilled. I, was not.

And because I apparently enjoy suffering, I microwaved the bread (yes, I know that’s wrong, but very desperate times), made more slightly torn apart toast, and served it up like a defeated jam-toast slave. Then, while they soaked in the tub, sat down on the toilet lid, and tried to process the fact that I had just had an emotional breakdown over frozen bread.

Here’s the thing: moments like this… these ridiculous, chaotic, completely unnecessary battles… they are what make up the bulk of parenting. If you asked me tomorrow how my day was, I’d probably say, “Oh, it was fine.” Because in hindsight, it was.

But in the moment? It’s overwhelming. The noise was deafening, the crumbs were everywhere, and you can’t see the humour yet because you’re too busy trying to keep everyone from self-destructing.

And yet, these will be the moments I forget when they’re grown. The jammy bread, the crumbs in my hair, the screaming demands from my toast overlord - they’ll fade into a blur.

So here’s to all the parents making toast at 7:32pm, crying over frozen loaves! We are doing great (I think) even if we are covered in crumbs.

Receipts: