The Curse of the Cake

I think I have been targeted by some sort of birthday cake curse that threatens the success of my baking efforts year after year.  When Graham turned two, I labeled his cake with more than one "two", resulting in a "happy 22nd birthday" cake that any young adult with a Mickey fetish would be proud to claim.

Cael's birthday cake that year seemed to go off without a hitch until we sat down to enjoy my efforts and Cael informed me that the cake tasted "so, so, so yucky".

And when I tackled Graham's cake a couple of weeks ago, all went well until the eleventh hour when the weight of the top tier crushed the cake below.

Sure, one could argue that these issues were of my own doing, but I think a curse seems totally plausible.  It's almost Halloween, right?

From the moment I developed a concept for Cael's fifth birthday cake, I seemed to hit roadblocks around every corner.  It is often said that God opens and closes doors, and if that is the case, God must really not like Chocolate Fudge Cake.  Or maybe Betty Crocker.  How much do we know about her anyway?

It all began Saturday when I devoted my only free morning to baking.  Wait-- that's not quite correct.  I had planned to devote my morning to baking, but instead I spent nearly an hour reconstructing my children's bedroom after Hurricane Cael-trina and Tropical Storm Graham put the entire contents in a blender and spread them across the floor and walls.  Every minute I spent flipping mattresses and unknotting flat sheets was a minute I could have been baking, so when I finally found myself back in the kitchen, I felt even more pressure to get the cake done quickly.

Given that I needed two large round cakes and two small round cakes, I planned to bake them all at once in multiple pans.  But could I find the second set of pans?  Of course not.  So instead of baking the cakes simultaneously, it took twice as long and the cakes weren't completed and cooled until lunch time when I thought I'd have moved on to the decorating stage.

But the kids had to eat.  And not cake, despite their protests.  So I took a break to make lunch and take a shower because no one wants to eat food prepared by someone who has been standing for 800 consecutive hours without bathing.  So while I took a few minutes for myself during Graham's nap, the curse struck, and Graham woke up.  Possessed by whatever supernatural entity causes three year-olds to act like three year-olds, Graham decided that it would be a great idea to eat some cake as a brief afternoon snack.  But Graham has specific tastes and apparently the center is the filet mignon of the cake, so he took a sweaty handful of chocolate fudge cake right from the middle.

Normally it wouldn't matter, but this time I wanted a point at the top of that cake.  Because what was I making?  A volcano.

I had to do some surgical work on the cake to create a shape that would still be useable.  And in one of the only curse-free positive points to the experience, I remembered to add support to the cake so that the weight of the volcano tier wouldn't crush the dinosaurs frolicking below. 

Been there, done that.  See above.

I worked on the cake gradually throughout the day, but with the boys hanging on my ankles, it was difficult to get much accomplished.  I was anxious for Joel to return home from deer hunting (it was opening weekend, people) to take the kids off my hands.  And then I got a text.

Because of Daddy's absence, it was clear I wouldn't be getting much work done until Cael and Graham were asleep in bed.  But when that point rolled around, I was physically and mentally exhausted and daunted by the idea of trying to recreate in fondant the image of the cake that was taunting my in my head. 

I crawled in bed around 2:30am-- aching, sticky and shaking from tasting one too many fingers-full of buttercream frosting.  And still, despite my efforts, the cake wasn't done.  Maybe it was the curse, maybe it was the children.  Maybe it was the apple cider with rum I'd nursed throughout the night. Whatever was to blame for the many roadblocks I'd hit that day, one thing was certain.  I was gonna have to work my prehistoric tail off to finish the cake for Cael's party...

Happy Birthday, Cael!

Is it possible?  My big boy turns five tomorrow and I officially feel old.  Rather than having a birthday bash on a Tuesday night when no one could attend because of work, we had a family dinner with presents last night, and Cael will be celebrating his birthday with his school friends on Wednesday.

So today we're taking it easy at my house and looking back on five years of laughs, love and drama.  But I will be back tomorrow with all of the details of his party, cake and thoughts on another year of life. 

And yes, probably more drama.  It's what he does best.

Farmer in the Dell

"Mommy, can I sing you a song?"

"Of course.  Which one are you going to sing?"

"You pick, Mommy."

"Okay, how about 'The Farmer in the Dell'?"

"Yep.. I'm good at that one." 

The farmer in the dell, the farmer in the dell.  Hi-ho, the poopy-oh, the farmer in the dell.
The farmer takes a toot.  The farmer takes a toot.  Hi-ho, the poopy-oh, the farmer takes a toot.
The toot is from a child, the toot is from a child.  Hi-ho the poopy-oh, the toot is from the child.
The child has a bottom, the child has a bottom.  Hi-ho the poopy-oh, the child has a bottom.
The bottom's on the dog, the bottom's on the dog.  Hi-ho the poopy-oh, the bottom's on the dog.
The dog eats the cat, the dog eats the cat.  Hi-ho the poopy-oh, the dog eats the cat.
The cat flushes the mouse, the cat flushes the mouse.  Hi-ho the poopy-oh, the cat flushes the mouse.
The mouse rides the cheese, the mouse rides the cheese.  Hi-ho the poopy-oh, the mouse rides the cheese.
The cheese stinks alone, the cheese stinks alone.  Hi-ho the poopy-oh, the cheese stinks alone!

"Wow.  That was really different."

"Yep, it was.  Different and BETTER."

Poopy-oh my.

Boxing Day

It is often said that toys are unnecessary to children, that they will play with a cardboard box as animatedly as they would with the latest, greatest store-bought toy.

They are right.

The new toys that Graham received for his birthday were considered "new" for all of about 25 minutes before Cael's eye began to wander around the house, looking for something new to systematically destroy.

I considered pulling out the big bag of plastic blocks, but the last time the boys erected a "boat train", it was demolished with such force that Oscar was pelted with a flying yellow block that struck him square in the eye.  The dog turned and sped out of there, but not before being pegged directly in the butt.  So... no blocks.

Cael asked if I would assemble his GeoTrax train set, but experience has taught me that a mere five minutes after I've reconstructed the bridge they they demolished during its last use, it will be stomped on, driven over or, once again, chucked at the dog's rear end.  So... no train set.

My options were running out.  I knew that I had a bead-melting craft project waiting in the wings for such a day, and since the boys had not played with it before, there was no past precedent to fear.  But as soon as I grabbed the box of beads and headed toward the table, Graham offered, "I'm gonna eat those beads, Mommy!" and I made an about-face back to the craft cabinet.  So... no bead. 

Oscar should probably be relieved.

Desperation set in.  I wandered around the basement storage room looking for anything that they hadn't seen in awhile to occupy their time, but managed only to trip over what seemed like dozens of empty cardboard boxes that I'd been saving for gift-wrapping at Christmas time.  I tried to move one and only managed to knock the others over before I had a thought.

"Who wants to play with JUMBO blocks!?"  I shouted.

"Me!  I do!  Yeah, let's do it!"

Advertising really is key.

So we spent the next two hours stacking the boxes, knocking them over, driving them around like cars and building cities.

Cael found that his strength was in wearing the boxes and morphing into some robot-human hybrid superhero whose power, as far as I can tell, was in passing really potent gas and walking into walls.

Graham did what he has done best lately and took offense to everything anyone did, said or thought.

So even though the blocks, the train set and the craft project were unsuccessful, the day was salvaged by a good old cardboard box. 

Except for Oscar, who took a few in the backside for good measure.  No day is perfect.

Ism of the Week

"Cael, what do you want in your eggs?  Cheese?  Spinach?  Onions?  Ham?"

"I want cheese.  But Mommy, what is spinnige?"  

"Spinach is a leaf that you eat.  I like it a lot and it's really good for you."

"Did it come from the backyard?"

"No, it's not a leaf from one of our trees.  It grows in gardens just for eating."

"What about sticks?  Can I eat sticks?"

"No, that's not good for your tummy."

"But Oscar eats sticks.  And poop."

"You should never eat poop."

"Well you said I shouldn't eat too much candy, but I saw you eat all of those pumpkin kisses yesterday, so you're not telling the truth."

Wowza.

"So I think I'm gonna start eating leaves and sticks and poop... OH!  And pumpkin kisses.  You DO know you're supposed to share, right Mommy?"

Separated At Birth

Like many mothers, I was shocked to see how nearly identical my two boys appeared at birth.  With almost two full years between them there were obvious size differences, but their features were so similar that, when displayed side by side, I had to label many of their photos to tell them apart.

At age one, however, it became apparant that Graham would not inherit Cael's signature curls.  From that point on, both boys continued to develop their own individual look, and I no longer had trouble telling them apart.

Until Graham turned three.

Because of their age difference they are and will always be distinguishable, but lately I have noticed many features of Graham's that I recall from when Cael was three.  I'm not speaking of what I thought was a unique ability to drive me to drink (although they both have that) but a subtle look in their eyes, or a tilt of the head meant to warn me of an impending fit or tickle attack.

I was noticing so many similarities again, but still hadn't caught it on film until today.  While I was filming a little interview with Graham, I threw a blanket over his head and snapped a few photos.  When I reviewed them on the computer, another shot from the group of photos I used for my blog header came to my mind.  A few minutes of digging revealed what I thought all along...

They're the same kid, just two years apart.

They're both shockingly adorable boys, both intelligent, active, sweet on their terms, silly, loveable and tailor-made to work in tandem toward my mental collapse.  And one day, they'll probably succeed.

But how will I know who to blame?...

Dream On

I'm one of those really tormented fortunate people that remembers their dreams almost nightly.  Joel will be the first to tell you that this is more of a blessing than a curse because my crystal-clear mental pictures of him by night are not always positive, and the real life (yet equally stubborn) version of my husband gets to deal with the aftermath.

Joel, the morning of our actual wedding day, 2005.

Sunday morning I awoke to a very clear memory of a sleep-induced wedding to my husband during which he refused to wear a tux or suit and instead opted to wear a plaid flannel shirt and frayed cut-off jeans because "it would be funny".

Even in my dreams I question his taste.

But yesterday I learned that I'm not the only one with a vivid memory and apparently not the only one with active dreams.

"Mommy!  Last night I had this crazy dream."

"I had a dream that I was playing in our yard with a mountain lion.  Not in the yard in front of our house, but the yard in the back.  The part with the fence.  The backyard?  Yeah, the backyard.  And I was wrestling the mountain lion and it bammed me in the head but I didn't cry because I'm so tough.  So I bammed it back in the head and the mountain lion roared and then he hit me with his tail but it just tickled.  Then he tried to run away but he couldn't get out of the yard because of the fence.  That's how I know it was in the backyard because of the fence.  You know, the one in the backyard?  Mommy?  Mommy?  Mommy?  Mom!  Mommy?  So he couldn't jump over the fence and I pushed him really hard until he dug a hole in the ground like Oscar does and got under the fence and into the neighbor's yard.  And then I called the police on my cell phone.  My phone was real in my dream, Mommy!  And the police came and took you away because you let a mountain lion get in our yard."

"That's a horrible dream, Cael!  But I'm glad no one got hurt."

"I hads a dream too, Mommy!"

"Yeah, Graham?  What was it?"

"I had a dream about Cael."

"And what happened?"

"Nothing.  He was just Cael.  It was so scary."

With the way those boys treat each other, I'm not surprised that Graham's dream turned into a nightmare.  But to really strike fear in his heart, Cael would have had to be dressed in a plaid flannel shirt and frayed, cut-off jeans...