I’m about to email Mr. Tango for an emergency wine run. Prayerfully, he’ll be leaving the office sooner, rather than later. I have just spent the last two hours on another this’ll-be-fun (ha.) family project, and am about ready to cut open that vacuum packed pouch in the sadly empty little wine block and lick it dry. What do I do wrong?
A cake. A simple, homemade chocolate cake with which we’ll make a Christmas castle. We don’t even have to assemble it, it’s a handy dandy bundt pan sent from my aunt, for special holiday cheer. Whip it up, pour it in, and voila’! A Christmas castle pops out, cools on the rack, and is decorated by all for memory making fun. It’s the only thing even remotely like this I’m trying all season, and I’m so nerve racked, I sent the children out in 40 degree, sun’s setting weather to just get out of the house. How can it be so hard?
I thought, this time, I’ll do it right. No frazzled Mom for the children. Warm fuzzy fun for all. I won’t clean the kitchen after breakfast, so I won’t care that we trash it. I won’t vacuum til later in the day, for the same reason (I don’t do these things every day, Monday is chore day). I won’t even shower, so if the flour starts flying, I’ll just throw back my greasy head and laugh. But then we all assembled in the 2x2 corner in which I have to cook, and all hell broke loose.
I’m thinking about it now. Where did I go off course? Was it the desire to actually teach them something, like I tell people I do? Is that it? I only figured this was a perfect avenue. Catgirl is still getting reading under her belt. So have her read out the ingredients, and instructions. Math is not Speedreader’s fav, so have him measure with me for real life application. I had no plan for Blue Boy. There is no plan that will ever be hatched that will ever contain him. I just thought I could hold on long enough to include his grubby little hands in the mixing and licking.
Problem one. Phone rings as we begin to assemble the stuff. Had to take it, was a girl I’d been trying to get a hold of. 10 minutes, max. But it was an eternity and a half to Catgirl, who just couldn’t sit still and stop waving the recipe in front of me, no matter how many I-don’t-want-to-be-mean-but-will-be-if-you-make-me looks I gave her. OK, OK, shake it off. Back in the ring. I can do this. I dance around the children’s I wanna do the first ingredients and assign tasks. After 10 more minutes, the sugar is in the bowl. Ladies and gentlemen, we had lift off. And it was grand. 2 honkin cups of sugar, in the bowl…OK, flour. Speedreader…Catgirl says we need 1 and 3/4 C. of flour. Let’s go. Um, Mom, where is the mark on the measuring cup? There’s not one there, but there’s the one cup mark, and the one and a half…but I don’t know fractions yet….yeah, yeah, yeah you do. This kind. Remember the apple? The pear? The cheese sticks? How we cut’em? Yeah, but this is different. Nooo, nooo, it really is not. Same thing. Now see this mark (1 1/3)? What does that say, I’ll walk you through. Um, one and a quarter (me, deep breath). Okaay, a quarter means ‘4′. This says ‘3′. So what does it say? Three quarters. Um, no, hon (a bit of tension on my part). Not threeee quaaaarters…there is no ‘4′. Try again. One half. A half? Nooo, remember when we did the apples, the pretty little red apples? Cut them in 4s…two of those is a half…this says three. Three. Then he starts throwing stuff out, left and right, up and down, because he will never, and I mean never, let you think he just doesn’t know something. All defensive like, doing the “what, what?” shrug as I eyeball him.Two quarters. One and one half. Four quarters. While I’m pointing at the three. So then I had to make that a lesson. Son, do you not know the answer (duh.)? Just say, I don’t know. That’s all. Just saaaaaay it. That’s what I’m here for. I can tell you. I’d be so very glad to just tell you. Remember, we’re having fun, and learning at the same time? The whole practical life app thing that unschooling is? So he says, just tell me where to pour the flour to, that’s all I want to know. Ah ha! See? You can’t do it, without this delightful little life lesson, because you haven’t learned how yet…you have to let me show you. It’s. fabulous. fun. Meahwhile, Catgirl. Mom, can I read the next ingredient yet? Can I read it, here listen to me read it. I can read it. This is a word I can read. Hey Mom, listen to this…Mom, moooommmm, are you listening. I don’t want to be the White Witch, all promises and smiles in the beginning, only to reveal the ugly underneath when we get into it. I’m trying to give her grace, I mean, she’s waited all day for this. She’s excited. She’s also about to make me want to grab the hammer over there by that chair and bash my head in.
And then the wild one. Precariously balancing on a 3 and a half foot barstool because I can’t remember to get a blasted safe kitchen stool, and he alway always always wants to see into the bowl. He’s not even as tall as the stool that threatens to topple him to his most certain death. He wants get the ingredients, so just starts pulling stuff out of the fridge. Mayo. Diet Pepsi. Ham. Half a jar of salsa. No, no, no, noo, no, no. Those don’t go in the cake. But I just want to heeelllp, they get to help. Oh, Blue Boy, of course you can help, you can, uh, you can, you can lick the beaters clean! But I thought I got to lick the beaters, Catgirl wails and tears ensue.
At this point, we’re still on the dry ingredients. With one more to go, and like, 4 wet ones following. I have a twitch in my eye. There is a continual low level noise that I finally identify as slight whining from Blue Boy, as he can never see as well as he wants (I can’t see, I can’t see, I can’t seeeeeee). Which means, he can’t stick his head in it, hands all over it, and take it apart and put it back together for inspection. Anything short is sorely disappointing for him. I go into high gear. Catgirl, crack eggs. Speedreader, find the one cup dealy, Blue, get the heck out of my way. I can’t do anything with your head in my head. Which, by way of his poorly positioned stool, is where he was. Everytime I turned to the left, we were eyeball to eyeball. Tears for removing him from his post. Don’t care, just move.
Then, it is finished. In the oven. Done. And as I finish this, the timer is starting to go off. The timer designed by Satan. It is so loud, so beep-y, the neighbors can hear it. It is just like the forklift back up warning beep at Lowe’s, echoing off the concrete and 2x4s in the lumber section. But every time it goes, all three children yell Mo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-mmmm! to help me remember the thing in the oven is done. And don’t tell me to just not use it, get a little handheld timer. I’ve had 4. They’re all gone. Can’t imagine what happened to them. Now the precious cake is cooling. I’m just hoping it’ll come out of the fancy pan. The children have asked, giddily, are we going to decorate it tonight? Hell no. We are not. At this point, I am positive a Christmas Castle Cake must cool aaaalll night before successful decorating can begin. Maybe two nights.
Hey, it did come out.
