Cake hate

My mission was a lemon dessert for the Hatchett Family Easter Dinner.  My dessert of choice was cake.  I envisioned the round contour of the top and the sleek, straight sides plunging toward a etched glass pedestal.  The cake would be moist and light, scented with lemon zest and love.  The filling would be strawberry, tangy and sweet, complimenting the delicate ribbons of lemon cream cheese frosting piped so beautifully around the borders of the cake.  Pastel spotted eggs would line the border to complete the work of art.

At least, that's what I wanted to make.  Instead, I made this:

All was going well until I began to stack the cake and it crumbled in my hands.  I tried to piece it back together and thought my repair attempt was successful, but when I began to dirty ice the sides of the cake the segments of the middle layer began to separate.  It was like watching a plate tectonics horror film.  The more I frosted, the more cake chucks drifted apart while gooey strawberry lava oozed out from the depths of the confection.  In my anger, I picked it up and screamed, "I'm so mad I'm going the throw this on the floor!"  And I was, had Paul not rushed to my side and snatched the cake from my trembling hands.

Cake in the garbage

I think next time I'll stick to cupcakes. . .

Me covered in frosting

Questions

My little Andrea has always been a talkative girl.  She babbled constantly as a baby, prattled non-stop as a toddler, and now that she's preschool age she's a bundle of chatty energy.  She's never been able to do anything without narrating her actions.  If I'm in the kitchen cooking dinner, this is what I listen to:

"Mommy!  I have to go potty!  Wow, I had to go really bad.  I can wipe all by myself.  Flush, and wash, and be on your way.  Oh!  Soap.  Soapy bubbles.  Turn off the water.  Wasting water is a bad choice.  Dry dry hands.  No, Sammy!  You can't come in here.  Mom!  Sam is trying to crawl in the bathroom.  It's okay I can get him out.  Come here, Sam.  Do you want to play with me?  You can play with my doll if you want.  Just don't slobber on my bear.  Mom!  Sam is standing.  MOM! Sam is sitting now.  Now he's crawling.  Mom!  I'm going to watch a show.  A-N-N-I-E.  That spells Annie.  That's my name, Sam.  Your name is Samuel Paul Rowberry.  Bear's name is Bear Evert Rowberry.  Mom!  I'm going to watch Seasame Street.  Mom!  Look, it's Elmo.  Mommy!  He's coloring.  He's singing a song, Mom.  MOMMY!  He has a fish!  I like that fish.  What's that fish's name?  MOM!  WHAT'S THAT FISHES NAME?"

If ever quiet, which is rare, I definitely know she's getting into trouble.

My older sister once asked me if the constant chatter bothered me, and I honestly answered that it doesn't.  I enjoy her little voice and am entertained by some of the wild things that come out of that mouth.  However, she has recently entered into a new phase.  I call it "the WHY phase."  It's pretty  self-explanatory.

She can no longer watch a movie and narrate.  Now I must watch Frozen with her while being bombarded by questions like I'm a murder suspect.

"Mom, why did their boat disappear?  Why are they in a picture?  Where is her sister?  Why is her hair like that?  Why is she cold?  Why is she singing?  Why is she talking to those duckies?  Why are they opening the gates?  What's a con-er-ation?  Why is she jumping on those couches?  Why is she wearing gloves?  I LOVE THIS MOVIE!  Why are they fighting?  Why is there a snowman?  Why are they running?  Why is it snowing?  Why is she so cold?  Why did she freeze her heart?  Why is she scared?  Why does she need a kiss?  Why is he putting out the fire?  Why is Olaf lighting the fire? Why does he have a sword?  Why is she so sad?  Why does she think her sister is dead?  Why did she punch him off the boat?"

I could go on, but I'm sure you get the picture.

Someone tell me this phase will be over soon.  I'm running out of patience and answers.

Crash

I remember the sneeze and then looking up at a red light.  My right foot jumped to the breaks as my arms gripped the steering wheel and braced for impact.  The thud of my blue car hitting a suburban unforgettably rang through my ears.  I don't recall the air bags deploying because my face was numb from their explosive power, but the smell, burnt and putrid, enveloped my senses.  I could feel wet beneath my nose and I reached up to touch what I expected to be blood and was surprised by what I found.  Snot.  From that distracting sneeze. I could hear my sons cries and my daughter began babbling in shock.  I whipped around to make sure she had kept her seat belt on. She had, thank heavens!  I began panting and panicking, shaking like a chihuahua.  If it weren't for that horrid smell, I might have not believed it was real.  I crashed.  I crashed the car with my babies in the back seat.

I remember crying.  I couldn't stop.  Through violent heaves and desperate sobs I kept repeating, "My babies!  My babies!"  Even though both we safe, unharmed, and quiet once I pulled them out of the car.  I was overwhelmed by guilt and shame, and the tears reflected the inner turmoil causing a great deal of nausea.  The other driver tried to comfort me and told me he wasn't mad or hurt.  But I was hurt and mad.  Hurt with dislocated ribs, bruises, and a busted lip, and mad at myself because, although I didn't crash on purpose, I was to blame.

The following days were difficult.  When my eyes would close the first thing I would see was the side of that tan suburban.  Then there was that thud.  I couldn't stop hearing that thud.  Andrea kept talking about it.  Hourly, I'd hear her telling bear about the sneeze, the crash, and my red teeth.  It pained me to hear, but I let her talk and process and cope.  Through all of her retellings I began to see immense bravery that surrounded my daughter like a protective armor.  She must have got that from her father.

I was not brave.  The thought of driving again sent me into a shaken and panicked state.  Even riding as a passenger was traumatic.  Every bump and flashing light turned me into a white-knuckled cling-on, gripping at the dash like it was my lifeline.  Sometimes I would cry, and Paul would softly reassure me.

Two days after the crash I knelt beside my daughter's bed and asked her to pray.  Unprompted, she began.  She thanked Heavenly Father for the things she loved: Grandma Gragraw, the supermarket, bear, vitamins.  Then she petitioned Him for help; not for herself, but for me.  She asked Him to help me remember Jesus and be calm.  As tears rolled down my cheeks she ended her pray with one final request: Help me take care of my mommy.  My daughter was not only brave, but wonderfully loving.  In that moment I knew I would be okay because I had faith in my Heavenly Father, and I had faith in Annie's faith.

When they are sleeping

Things I like to do when the children are sleeping:

-Use the bathroom ALONE.  No audience telling me how many squares I'm allowed to use or asking me questions I'd rather not answer.  ("Mommy?! Why are you bleeding?")

-Watch movies and shows that would otherwise scar my daughter. (Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Pirates of the Carribean, etc.) She's easily scared.

-Eat things I don't want to share.  I share food all day long.  If we have sandwiches for lunch, Andrea will eat hers an then come sit uncomfortably close to me and give my sandwich THE STAREDOWN.  Or if I peel an orange guess who eats most of it?  Not me.  If I get out an orange for me and an orange for her she will still beg for mine while her orange sits untouched on her plate. Look, kid.  You eat your food and I'll eat mine, kapeesh?

-Sew.  If I do this while the kids are asleep I avoid needles in the carpet because Andrea can't stand to leave them in the pin cushion.

-Shower, if I have the energy. Who knew showers could be so draining. He he he. See what I did there? Draining?  . . . . Moving on.

-Fold laundry.  Have you ever folded laundry with a little "helper" unfolding it faster than you can fold?  It's not fun.  I don't particularly enjoy folding laundry the first time, but the third time I have to fold the same shirt in one sitting it starts to mess with my head.  I can feel Psycho Mom emerging and hear illogical things spew from my mouth like "If you unfold that one more time I'm going to throw these clothes in the garbage!"  Don't ask me what I think will be accomplished by this idol threat, but to Phsycho Mom it makes perfect sense.

-Make phone calls.  I swear my children have a sixth sense that tells them my phone has turned on, and then all heck breaks loose.  Seriously, do ya'll have to start crying the moment I try to talk to the Netflix tech support people?!  Breathe, Kayla.  Breathe.

-Scoop other peoples dog poop out of my yard.  I wish I didn't have to do this, but I do and having to constantly remind the three year old to watch her step while I hold a bag of poop with the hand wrapped around the 8 month old doesn't exactly sound like a trip to IKEA, if ya catch what I'm throwing down.

Aside from a myriad of other chores that can be accomplished, the thing I desire more than anything in the world is to sleep when my children are sleeping.  Oh sleep.  Oh blessed, beloved sleep.  How I miss thee.

Rejuvenated

With my seven month old perched precariously on my hip, I did my morning rounds.  After a diaper change, it's a walk though the living room to pick up the dirty diaper and relocate the diaper bag.  On my way to the kitchen garbage I step on a small, plastic bear and mutter a made-up curse word.  I shift the baby and bend down to pick up the pokey offender while instructing my three year old to keep little bears out of the carpet.  I turn back toward the kitchen once more only to be distracted by a news story about a murder-suicide.  Sad.  The baby starts to paw and the poopy diaper which acts as a reminder of my mission.  I bounce him through the house until the cool tile floor greets and refreshes my step.  The diaper is discarded and my one free hand makes quick work of gathering breakfast dishes and piling them into the sink.  The three year old reminds me to give her vitamins and, after a one-handed struggle with a child-proof cap, the crunching of chalky tablets indicates the three year old is temporarily appeased.

I take to the stairs because above me laundry awaits.  It's Tuesday, which typically means I wash towels, but I sit the baby on the floor, handing him miscellaneous trinkets from near by, and start stripping the sheets off my bed.  After falling victim to a leaky diaper, the sheets cannot wait till my customary sheet-washing Thursday.  The seven month old sits sturdily and gums on a little penguin bucket until it is apparent by his cries he is bored and wishes to return to his regular perch on my hip.  I pick him up, gather my comforter in my free arm, and stuff it into the washing machine just outside my room.  Worried that it won't fit I contemplate a laundry mat, but the wiggly baby trying to flip himself upside down motivates me to give the blanket an extra shove.  I hear singing below.  Itsy Bitsy Spider.  Classic.  I hum along while I pin the fabric softener between my body the wall so I can remove the lid.  The tiny boy under my arm lurches for the bottle and scolds me for keeping it out of reach.  I laugh at his fit because his tiny puckered lip reminds me so much of his older sister.  We return downstairs and I spend a moment surveying the house, planing my next move in the game that is morning.

As I look out over my world I contemplate my life and feel blessed.  Not because it's perfect or glamorous or even particularly fun, but because it's beautiful, and because it's mine to captain.

Breathe

A new year usually brings new resolutions and new hope.  Hope for more money, less pounds, and increased personal growth.  Last year New Years was exciting.  Paul and I knew that the next few months would bring a new baby and a new house, so we welcomed 2013 with open arms.  Two nights ago Paul and I rang in the new year by toasting at midnight.  "To a year of no pregnancies," I said.

"And no new babies," he said.

"And no moves," I said.

"And no job changes," he said.

Our glasses clinked and we agreed that this year our resolution was to settle in and breathe.  In the four and a half years we've been married we've lived in three different places, worked in five different jobs, attended four different schools, received two degrees, had three pregnancies, and are raising two babies.  More than anything, we would like some time to rest.

How often does that actually happen though?

After downing our glasses of cheep sparkling grape juice, I began to feel sad.  No, not sad.  Dread.  I felt dread blow in like a bad storm and settle right over me, pelting my head with heavy drops of mockery and drudge.  You see, this new year as we celebrated the lack of events, I realized we were celebrating a year of monotony.  I thought back to Saturday when my baby scared me to death by violently throwing up for a few hours.  I recalled the excessive tears my daughter produces during a tantrum.  I thought of the poop-- soooo much poop-- that I smell and clean up everyday.  I felt a pit in my stomach when I remembered how alone I feel up here in Salt Lake City, and how I count down the minutes until Paul comes home so I can talk his ear off recounting the story I told Andrea before her nap and how many times Sam drooled on my toe (five, in case your wondering).  I thought about how hard I am on myself and how I hate being criticized but can't stop picking at my own faults.  Suddenly, 365 days of that sounded rather bleak, and I wanted nothing more than to stuff my head in the couch like an ostrich.

My sweet husband, who is also a superhero, could tell I was not feeling well.  He hugged me tight and asked me what was the matter.  "I'm just having a hard day," I whispered.

"I noticed," he replied.  He kept his arms around me and gently rubbed my back as I absorbed his scent.  Breathe, I thought.  This is a year to breathe.

The pajama pants from you-know-where

Last year I sewed some matching pajama pants for my husband and daughter.  I meant to sew some for me too but didn't buy enough fabric.  Andrea has LOVED these pants and whenever she sees her daddy wearing the "owl pants" (they have owls on them) she begs to wear hers as well.  Sadly, those pants had some flaws and fit issues (to short and a little snugly in the nether regions) because I didn't use a pattern.  Also, Andrea has all but outgrown hers.  So, this year I thought I would give the whole matching pajama thing a second try.  Using a pattern.  And buying SIX full yards of fabric.

Silly me.

So far, these pants have been nothing but blunder after blunder.  I partly blame it on drowsy sewing.

Public service announcement: Kids!  Do not try this at home!  Falling asleep while a sharp needle rapidly pierces in a downward motion in a close proximity to your phalanges is not smart!

(Climbing off soap box.)

The first of my serious of rather egregious errors was the same mistake I made last year.  I didn't buy enough fabric.  Six yards probably should have been eight.  But unlike last year, I did not want to go with out matching pants again, so Paul and I spent an evening strategically positioning patterns, planning proportions, and pinning the purple panels.  And after much patting of backs and praise, I began cutting.  Sadly, mistake number two was waiting in the wings for its grand entrance.  I cut out Andrea's back leg panel inside out.  When I discovered the blunder I cried out in horror because at this point I'm starting to have deja vu of the pants of yesteryear.  Paul shook his head in shame as I reasoned with myself.  "It's okay," I said.  "These pants were going to be really big on her anyway.  I may not have extra fabric but I can slim these puppies down and cut out a new smaller panel out of the inside out one.  Yes, that's what I'll do!  Precious."  I mumbled like Gollum.  Imagine creepy Gollum hunched over purple owls.  Now add some more hair.  Brown.  Long.  And put clothes on him.  There.  That's what I looked like, wide eyes and all.

When I (assumed) that problem was solved I began sewing and in the process learned that I had cut one half of my pants way too short.  Pajama pants in the front; capris in the back. I considered turning them into shorts right then and there, but I really, really wanted warm PANTS.  I dug through the tiny scraps and managed to get two strips of fabric to add to the bottom.  The owls were sideways but I thought a nice decorative ribbon would make the blunder look intentional. However, when I went to sew the pant legs I discovered that I had not properly lined things up and the decorative ribbon at the bottom didn't match up at the seams and spiraled around my ankles.  Too lazy to unpick and recut, I sewed in a strange side pleat and moved on with life.

My pants (albiet ugly) were nearing completion so I tried them on only to find them to be HUGELY too big and uncomfortable because I thought I was a size that I wasn't.  Apparently, I not only have sewing issues but body image issues as well.  Fantastic.

I needed a break from those horrid pants so I turned my attention to Sam's, which after sewing one seam it was apparent that they were far to small.  I tossed them to the side because I didn't have the energy to deal with that problem.  Besides, his pants were low on the priority totem pole.  I decided to revisit Andrea's.  After sewing the inseam I slipped them onto Andrea's legs, and much to my horror, the revised pattern I used to solve the inside out panel was far to skinny.  They were also too small for Sam.  I again gathered those few and precious scraps and pieced together panels to add to width to the waist and legs of the pants.  Once those were pinned and sewn in place I asked Andrea to try them on again so I could determine how much fabric was needed to turn under around her ankles.  "I don't want to wear those pants," she said flatly.

"Andrea!" I gasped.  "But these are your owl pants!  They're for Christmas.  Don't you want to try them on?"  She again refused which prompted some water works. . . from me.  Because if the three year old I was going to all of this trouble for and spending all this money on didn't even want her pants, THEN WHY WAS I WASTING PRECIOUS BRAIN CELLS AND MOMENTS I COULD HAVE USED FOR A MUCH-NEEDED NAP?!

I have temporarily abandoned the pajama pants from you-know-where.  They are tossed in a corner, collecting dust while I contemplate suicide finishing them.

Next year I'm just buying everyone matching pants.