Mommy Fail

This was my parent failure moment of the weekend. My youngest turned seven on Mother's Day and he had one big request for mom...a Lego cake. We sat together on the couch and researched cakes on Pinterest, I became more and more insecure about my abilities. Most of these monstrosities were the size of a smart car and covered in a mortgage payment worth of fondant. I kept scrolling. "I love that one," he grinned as he lay his head on my shoulder. Try saying no to that, you heartless bastard. "Okay, buddy, I'll make that one." It was the least intimidating cake we had seen, two large square Lego blocks with real frosting and marshmallows for the nobs. I could do this. I found a YouTube video that showed me step by step how not to fuck up this cake. I watched and laughed and imagined what a hero I would be when we served up a cake in the shape of plastic blocks. Mom Of The Year.

Growing up, my mom designed cakes for us every year and in every possible shape. She was ahead of her time with Cake Boss style chainsaw cakes, mouse cakes and my one true love, the Cabbage Patch doll cake. Every beauty was made with a cheap box cake, basic pans and creativity that would put 21st century blogger moms to shame. Our birthday snapshots are filled with cheesy grins and professional looking desserts whipped up by a woman who made me believe it was nothing special. Didn't every mom bake professional style cakes every quarter of every year for two decades? It's what makes my failure feel even more like a kick to the baby maker.

The day of my son's party, I woke up early with excitement and anticipation. I eagerly searched online for how to make box cake taste like homemade and got to work. The cake came out of the oven looking beautiful, that would be the first and last time it would. As I wielded my butcher knife it became clear that I was in over my head. The more I cut, the more it fell apart. "I'll fix it with frosting" I thought. I started mixing the red and after draining the mini bottle of dye, I realized I had enough coloring for hot pink, not red. I was out of frosting except for the container that someone had opened, eaten out of and placed back in the pantry. It smell like belly button lint. Frosting the squares brought me to tears and I was hoping it would get better when my mom walked in to witness my sham of a life.
"You okay, hon?"
"I've ruined his birthday. I can't make red frosting, it's all falling apart and I can't fix it." I cried.
"It happens, just go buy a cake and let it go."
Easy for her to say, she hadn't ruined my 7th birthday and I still turned out to be a fucking mess of an adult. How much therapy would my little man need?

My husband took him to the store to pick out a cake and they returned while I was showering off my disappointment. I only saw the cake as we were leaving for the sweaty foot pizza parlor. This $20 cake was covered in bright colored daisies and butterflies with Happy Birthday!!! chicken scrawled in red frosting. My jaw ached as I held back tears and the thought of hiding under the dining table crossed my mind, as did pulling out the boxed wine and suckling straight from the nozzle. My hubby saw the look of horror on my face and said "Let it go. He liked it and the options were slim. No one is going to care."

He was right, no one cared except me. I wanted to be my mom, I wanted to be a Pinterest mom, I wanted to be a perfect mom but instead I was a me mom.  Maybe one day my son can blog about how his mommy ruined his 7th birthday cake and he loves her anyway.