We often have a narrative we tell ourselves. I’m no good at finances. I suck at sports. I’m a terrible writer. We cling on to these ideas for many reasons, even if—sometimes—they’re inaccurate. What story are you telling yourself? And are you sure you’re telling it right?
L A S T Y E A R:
It started with a beautiful cake we made over the weekend. It’s true that it was a Betty Crocker original; but still, the two-layer red velvet cake with vanilla icing was perfect. So perfect, and seemingly simple, that I so I assumed repeating the grand feat a second time for the school celebration the next day would be as easy peasy as this lemon squeezy they talk about.
It.
Was.
Not.
The cakes came out of the oven. I placed one on top of the other as I had the first time. Daughter-Child wanted a “Candy Land” cake so I mixed food coloring and frosting into 4 separate bowls and started spreading the blue icing on to the first quarter of the cake. Then, I moved on to the next color. But as I spread the green on, I saw that the blue section had a crack in it. Hmm… that’s interesting, I thought. I didn’t see that there before. I took a glob of blue frosting and dipped it into the crack. I’m not sure why I thought the frosting would work like glue but hey… I never claimed to be a baker.
Crisis averted. However, when I turned my attention back to the green frosting, I noticed a crack there. Ok… Now I know that wasn’t there before. I dropped a green glob of frosting glue into that crack, but before I could even finish globbing that together, other cracks starting to appear. Oh Dear God. This is not good. I continued frosting, hoping that enough frosting would hold the cake—and my positive attitude—together but each crack took a slice of my positivity with it.
And then, just as my hope was cracking alongside the red velvet, Daughter-Child says, very matter of fact, “I knew we should have just bought a cake from the store.”
Gaaaaaaasp.
Everyone in the room stopped breathing. Husband and Son tried their best not to make any sudden movements—as one does when a T-Rex is close enough to swallow you whole, or worse, snap you in his teeth and vigorously shake its head, tearing you into two gruesome pieces. I curled my lips in and bit down on them to stop them from speaking-yelling-crying. I knew anything I said right now would burn hot—besides my face would never allow my emotions to be bottled up inside.
(But also to set the record straight…no she didn’t. Both in the neck-circle-with-a-snap “Oh no she didn’t” sense but also in the literal no-she-did-not-ever-mention-getting-a-store-bought-cake sense.)
Calmly and three octaves lower than I usually speak, I terrifyingly, Christian-Bale-Batman-like suggested, “I’m going to need you to get out of the kitchen.”
Once alone, it was clear that I was in a Grey’s Anatomy crucial situation and this was my operating room. I called Husband (McDreamy, of course) back in and gave him swift, clear instructions.
“Get two pieces of cardboard, wrap them in aluminum foil. We’re going to use them to prop up the cake.”
Scene fades out. Audience is uncertain of the outcome.
The cake arrived at school the next day—propped up but stable. I prayed with bated breath that the cake would stay standing through the English + Spanish versions of Happy Birthday. And when it did, I vowed to buy a cake for the next year.
Which is what makes this year, the very next year, a riot…
As if she had forgotten…
Daughter- Child suggested we make a cake again this year. I laughed in her face. There was no chance I was going through that again. But as the Universe sometimes does, it laughs right back in your face.
When I asked my Go-To Cake Gal Pal to make this year’s birthday cakes she informed me, she’d be traveling. Nooooooo.
I had already bought one fancy cake for Daughter’s party and I didn’t want to spend more money on a second cake. So, fine, Universe. I see you there with your cosmic jokes and I accept your challenge.
At first, I felt ok about this time around. I saved the beautiful mermaid tail and golden seashell made of fondant from the first cake to reuse but as soon as Daughter-Child told me she had broken them my confidence plummeted.
Oh Lord Cheeses. Was this really happening again?
And then I stopped, reminded myself of a question my therapist has had me ask myself lately:
What story are you telling yourself?
I was replaying the story of a cracked cake. How I failed and fumbled it all up and glued it together with frosting and a prayer.
But that story was wrong. Despite the things cracking around me, I turned out a pretty awesome cake. Sure, I may have failed at parts but I didn’t fail the whole. I made my way through the cracks, through the doubt, through people losing faith. I failed through and came out the other end of Candy Land.
So with a reframed mindset, I asked again: What was really happening again?
Was having the chance to make another epic cake really happening again? Why yes. Yes, it was.
Last year, my birthday baking fiasco was real. But yesterday’s story is not today’s. At least, it doesn’t have to be if you allow the cracks to teach you a different story.
P.S. 7 effective things you can do to help you through change and dinner table questions to ask your kids
