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Between a rock and a hard place

When I began blogging way back in Oh-six, my children were ages 6, 4, and 18 months.  None of them could read all that well and they had no idea what a blog was.  Therefore their escapades were fair game.

Fast forward to present day and they are now (nearly) 14, (dangerously close to) 12, and 8 years old.  All of them can read.  And I can tell you as a reluctant homeschooling mom of nearly 9 years, no one is more surprised than I am by that factoid.

I have a pact with the teenager and her tween sister that in the event I feel the need to blog about them, I must fork out dough.  Because of my frugal nature, you don’t hear about their comings and goings all that often any more.  The boy is still fair game, because he hasn’t mastered the art of negotiation and frankly, because he does not possess any type of filter, he could care less if I share his foibles in all their glory.  So share I do.

But I’m afraid that I’ve come to a blogging crossroad in that because of ALL THE HORMONES (if you’re keeping score, that’s one teen, one tween, and one mother navigating menopause) I would be remiss if I didn’t share just a glimpse of some of the madness that is my life.

So I’ll be out a few bucks.

Yesterday was a day fraught with ferrying various children to different activities.  This included my own three, plus 4 more that belong to a dear friend.  Honestly, I had to keep a cheat sheet so I wouldn’t lose anyone.

It just so happens that one of her children was celebrating his birthday, so Cailey excitedly offered to make some birthday cupcakes along with her friend, Betty Crocker.  I stood back and let her take care of the whole thing, including the requisite licking of the bowl.  In years past I’ve been known to squirrel the bowl away into the closet to scrape it clean myself.  Unbeknownst to my offspring.  I’d like to tell you that I was simply being selfless in an attempt to avoid a bad scene between 3 children who would fight one another to the death over a cake mix bowl.

But that would be a lie.

Anyhoo.  Cailey lost interest after the cupcakes were safely deposited into their paper baking cups and the bowl was licked clean.   She skipped off to play with her girlfriend.  I was left with the actual baking duty.  I set the timer and when it sounded, I checked the cupcakes with a toothpick.  The toothpick came out of the cupcake not clean, so back in the oven they went.  In fact, a few more times I checked but had to put them back in.  I was in the middle of cooking dinner and various other housewife-type duties, so I may have lost count of how many times the cupcakes went back in the oven.

At last I gave up and called it a day.  They looked fantastic.  We had 2 of my friend’s children over for dinner (including the birthday boy) and afterwards we made a big presentation of cupcakes, replete with singing.  I wondered why I had such trouble getting a candle into one of the cupcakes.

The children all decorated their cupcake with cool whip and sprinkles.  I announced to one and all that Cailey made the cupcakes ALL BY HERSELF.  She beamed.

And then it happened.

No one could get the cupcakes free from the paper baking cup.  I suggested that perhaps the paper would add a little fiber and they should just go for it.  Let’s just say that it’s a miracle that no one lost a tooth.  Hard as rocks.  In fact, they banged them on the table.  No crumbs.  Nothing.

Cailey was mortified.  I tried to laugh off the incident saying that I didn’t realize that these cupcakes were SUPPOSED to have a creamy center and I may have over baked them.  No one really heard my explanation as we were then rushing out the door to get to an event.

In the evening, Fiddledaddy and I returned home with just our own 3 children.  Cailey headed for the remaining cupcakes and picked one up, cradling it gently.  Her father wisely bagged up the rest lest they be used a weaponry by a certain 8 year old brother.  I noticed that Cailey disappeared.  I looked all over the house and finally found her in my closet.  Crying over the cupcake.

Clearer heads could not prevail.  Not even an offer of “THERE IS NO CRYING OVER CUPCAKES.”

I tried to help her find the humor but that won’t be happening today.  Or tomorrow.  Or likely any time soon.

Fiddledaddy looked at me.  “I hope you see yourself.”  And with that he reminded me of a story that still haunts me from my youth when my dog, Bananas, buried my homemade pancakes in the yard.  No one could sink their teeth into them.  So they were given to the dog.  Who buried them.

Hundreds of years from now they’ll likely be excavated in a perfectly preserved condition.

After 40 years, I still haven’t found the humor.


2 Responses to Between a rock and a hard place

  • Is there a fund we can donate to finance the stories? 😉

    Must have been the week for crummy cake mixes! We made a yellow cake from a name brand mix. It didn’t rise. We tried to pretend it was ok because, you know, it was CAKE! The tummy aches that followed were no fun and it really hurt to watch all that delicious frosting end up in the trash.

    I feel your pain! I spent an hour or so Sunday afternoon holding a crying, hormonal 12 year old. That was loads of fun! There is not enough money in the world to pay me to be 12 again!!!

    BTW: there are days I regret teaching my kids to read…and tell time! heeheehee
    225 days till paradise, er I mean convention. 😉

  • Well, bless her heart. I feel her pain. When I was about her age, I decided to make homemade biscuits using my late grandmother’s recipe. While they were in the oven, I could almost hear the accolades from my parents and older brother. Once they were out of the oven and everyone was seated at the table, I presented the plate of what was supposed to hold light, fluffy, buttery goodness. Instead, it held small boulders. My brother picked one up, and his dining room chair immediately broke. He still blames it on my boulder-like biscuits.

    And then in my late 20s, we were hosting a dinner party for several couples and I made a chocolate dessert with a homemade crust that I’d made at least 30 times, so I wasn’t all too attentive to the recipe. Instead of the cup of flour and tablespoon of powdered sugar it called for, I used a cup of each. At the end of the meal, I got ready to cut the desert, put the knife into it, and it was like hitting concrete. None of our knives could cut through it. So instead of a perfectly square piece of chocolate delight, everyone got a big, curious-looking blob.

    I am now a devoted fan of Sister Shubert and her dinner rolls along with Mrs. Smith and her frozen desserts. 🙂