It didn’t seem like an overly ambitious plan, or you know I would not have attempted it. Just making a few cupcakes for Brother to take to English school tomorrow would surely be easier than what he really wanted to do: have eight seven-year-old boys come over to our house.
Not. Gonna. Happen.
I don’t know why I let Me Too help with this endeavor. Maybe it was because I have pleasant memories of helping my mom in the kitchen. (Which in retrospect might not be very pleasant for her, considering the particular memory that stands out involves my sister and I fighting over who got to stir the pudding. That ended up with me burning my side and ruining a sippy cup.) Maybe it was because Me Too was so eager to do something nice for Brother’s birthday.
Probably it was temporary insanity.
At any rate, I forgot one of the cardinal rules of doing anything with children: it will take twice as long.
Me Too wanted to use the mixer. She wanted to scoop the cake batter into the muffin cups. She wanted to do a hundred different things that were just gonna end in tears (mine.) I ended up asking her to prep the muffin cups. Simple enough, except that she opened every d@mn muffin cup in the entire house.
And because I’d forgotten the cardinal rule from Parenting 101, we weren’t done when Me First came home. This is the time, every day, when all hell proceeds to break loose.
Within five minutes, we had icing all over the floor, muffin cups glued to the table, an icing piper in both children’s mouths and noise like it was the Fourth of July.
Insert headache here.
I sent the lil rascals outside for a bit. Approximately 1.5 seconds later the noise of their fighting became too much for me to comfortably continue to inflict on the nieghbors. I was afraid someone would call the cops, probably on me.
Now they are passing hateful notes to each other through the “peephole” in the fusuma paper doors that Me First installed during a particularly thrilling tantrum a few years back.
These cupcakes had better be good.