Sometimes, with the best laid plans and intentions, a holiday just comes along and whips your tail, just to prove you have absolutely 0.00 control over ANYTHING. You thought parenting was a wild ship sailing out of control? You ain’t seen anything until you are a Momma trying to make a holiday special. My ticket to whip your Easter Keister City was punched today.
A) I decided, on a Pinterest whim (I am Indiana Lori, should you dare to follow my reckless taste), to make Easter skirts for the girls and Cousin Avery. I sewed. And sewed. And sewed. I bought coordinating tops. I took them all back. I tried again. I bought them all matching sandals whose colors had inspired the skirts. I finished at 1:00 pm the day before Easter…too early. I sensed disaster was in the air.
B) They fit! Wa-hooey! Greg and I took the girls to White River Gardens for pictures, WHERE, we discovered the sandals, now minus tags and probably a return receipt, were akin to Steve Martin’s Cruel Shoes. The girls could barely walk in them, and spent a great deal of time complaining that they sucked worse than Easter grass being puked up by a kitten (OK, I added that part). Still, we got pictures. Yeah. I have fake happy pictures. Don’t judge…you’ve done it.
C) We marched off to my parents house, WHERE, I discovered I had left Avery’s skirt at home. 85 miles away. I had both a matching tank and adorable shrug, the cruel shoes sandals, and no skirt. No handmade skirt. No skirt that I spent hours upon hours making, and probably weeks conceptualizing (there’s a bit of time commitment for those of us who refuse to use patterns). In an adult-like response (OK, I added that part), I stepped quietly out to the side of the house and had myself a good cry. Avery took it like a champ. I, did not. I marched back inside with a bottle of wine in my hand, while my Mother quietly pointed to the glasses in the china cabinet.
D) I was in charge of 1 cake. Just one. Even my friends raised an eyebrow. No side dish? No main dish? Nothing that catches on fire while shooting candy out of its innards? Perhaps I should preface with a couple of conversations:
My dear friend Kellie: So you’re just making a pastel pink cake?
Kellie: You know you’ll never stop at icing and sprinkles.
Me: You don’t even know me.
Kellie: Come on Lori. What are you adding?
Me: OK. Maybe I’m thinking of doing some kind of miniature pennant banner thing on top.
Kellie: That reads, “Happy Easter”?
Me: STOP KNOWING ME!
And then with my Mother:
Mom: Lori, maybe I should get some cupcakes. Just in case.
Me: Just in case of what?
Mom: There are 14 people coming! That’s a lot of cake!
Me: For whom? I could feed 14 people blind-folded with my hands tied behind my back. I made your Step-Daughter’s wedding cake from a Martha Stewart Magazine picture, served it outside in 90 degree heat, while I was 8.5 months pregnant. YOU WERE THERE.
Mom: That’s right, that’s right. OK, if you think you can do it.
Me: Sometimes I wonder if we’ve ever met.
AND SO THERE YOU HAVE IT. I pissed off the Easter Cake Fates, and they got me. I thought, “Ha. I’m going to make this easy on me this year. Box cake. Tub icing.” It’s like I played right into the Fates’ hands. The cake (screw you Duncan Hines) fell into pieces. And by “cake”, I mean ALL THREE of them. I was able to piece 2 back together, and I chucked 1 in the trash can. The icing wouldn’t spread nicely, and after fighting with it for 30 minutes, I seriously considered throwing out the whole thing and heading to the grocery to buy a ready-made cake. A lifetime epic failure; I was ready to accept defeat. BUT, I have taken all 3 sets of Wilton Cake Classes (I added that part…I took 2.5 sets…that last section was just a pain in the…), and I have taken a half a semester of culinary school. Clearly, I should be qualified to rescue 1 pink cake. My first plan involved a type of cake camouflage, so even after I was able to correct the icing, I moved forward with plan “Dazzle and Confuse”. I should have stopped at the sprinkles. Kellie was right.
Me: Sara, do you think I went too far? Do you think the flowers are too much?
Sara: Oh yes. They are WAY too much. But they are you. And it’s pretty.
Kelly: Can we EAT IT NOW?! I’m very, very, very hungry.
In the end, I learned the age-old lesson which is burned into Mothers all over the world every single holiday: Ain’t nobody carin’ ’bout these silly details but you Momma. Cake tastes like cake, no matter what it looks like. Kids only care about the candy, and don’t give a hoot ’bout the clothes. Now shut up and pour yourself another glass of wine. Jesus didn’t die for your sins so you could sew skirts and make desserts. But he will forgive you for being crazy. Amen.