Cupcakes

I signed up last week to bring the dessert to Hardy's preschool Valentine's Day party. I had no idea that this decision would lead me to a solid week of internal wrestling over dessert and its hidden meaning.



The reason I signed up for dessert is that I love to bake. It is something that brings me great joy. There is an indescribable feeling from amalgamating disparate ingredients that are not all yummy (such as flour or salt) and getting an end result that is delicious (yum, brownies). And for me, it has to be totally from scratch. I do not receive the same joy from using a mix or from using store-bought cookie dough. When I make these products, it doesn't feel that the end result belongs to me. Anyone could have made the cake or cookies. They don't speak of me or my likes. It is an impersonal product. They do not speak the same volumes of love to me. Or perhaps I am crazy in that my baked goods seem to have voices and speak to me.

Once I signed up, I dithered over what to make. I had not baked in awhile, so everything I could think of sounded wonderful. I contemplated cut-out cookies, cookies on sticks, candy, mini pies, and cakes before deciding upon cupcakes. If you are a kid, cupcakes are the ultimate dessert. They are individual sizes, have frosting and delicious sprinkles.

Once I decided what to make, I proceeded to make my cupcakes from scratch, mixing up buttercream frosting, decorating the cakes with Hershey kisses and sprinkles. I was glowing as I baked, feeling like supermom for making such clearly superior cupcakes. True, they looked nothing like what Martha would create, but they were homemade and showed lots of love (which is code for they were not decorated by a professional). I boxed them and delivered them to school on Thursday.

While at the party that day, watching the kids eat my delicious creations, I was bowled over by an epiphany. I watched the kids licking the frosting, eating the sprinkles and realized that not a single one of them cared what kind of dessert they were having. The important thing was the party, the time they were spending together, the knowledge that boxes full of Valentine cards and candy awaited them in the hallway. The cupcakes were nice, but they could have been any dessert. The important thing was the experience, the party itself.

I realized that I can get hung up on the details that do not matter at times. Hardy does not care that I made homemade cupcakes. He cared that I sat down with him after the party, patiently reading all his cards to him and exclaiming with him over his candy. He cares that I spend time with him, doing nothing or building a Leggo house or watching Garfield. All the extras do not matter. What matters is our time together.

After this realization I am no longer feeling guilty about wanting to go to grad school in the fall. I trust that Ellie and Hardy both will feel loved and cherished still, as long as I make the effort to do the things that matter to them. Even if it seems silly to me. So I foresee more time playing chase and monster, playing tickle fingers and reading books, and less time stressing over the perfect dessert with the most heartfelt subtext.