Mother Poppins and the Birthday Cake Mishap

The conversation was not going well and I was starting to get nervous.

"Lil' Miss, are you excited about the birthday party?"
"Yeah! My friends and I are gonna be ballerinas!"
"Well, no. It's not a ballerina party."
"Princesses?"
"No, honey, it's not really a dress-up party."
"Oh... A princess bounce house though, right?"
"No."
"Oh... A pony bounce house?"
"No, but the pinata is a pony."
"Oh... I know! It's a pirate bounce house!"
"No..."
"Strawberry Shortcake?"
"No. It's Curious George, remember?"
"Oh... but we're gonna have CAKE at the party!"
"No. Brownie cupcakes."
"Oh..."

And so on, and so forth. This was not boding well for the next day's party or for my children's memories of me as a party planner. I was beginning to wonder if this was how my mom felt after a birthday mishap that I've playfully tormented her about for the last three decades. Before I explain, I should probably give some background information about my mom first.

Anyone who knows my mother would agree that she's got a bit of genius in her fingertips. Whether playing a musical instrument, creating an abstract painting, sewing a quilt, or cooking a marvelous holiday meal for fifty people, everything the lady touches turns to gold. As a kid, she reminded me of one of my favorite movie characters, Mary Poppins, that heel-clicking magical mystery who was "Practically Perfect in Every Way". I marveled at the way my mom could turn ordinary household objects like paper plates, pipe cleaners, and uncooked noodles into an exciting rainy day craft. And while plenty of other kids have mothers who played the piano, I doubt any of them sat in church and watched while theirs rocked out on stage with an electric base guitar.

When the Cabbage Patch craze took off, my mom didn't go out and buy one for me, she MADE one, complete with yarn hair, clothes and movable limbs. MOVABLE LIMBS! She made most of my clothes as well. Not just because we were po (more mother eye rolling at reference to impoverished past), but because she could do it better. And right she was. My unique and stylish dresses were the talk of the playground. Except for the knitted two-piece bathing suit (a very bad idea for reasons I'm still not ready to talk about), I loved everything she made me.

But most notably, my mom is a "great cooker" and everyone knows it. How many times did my high school friends just "happen to be in the neighborhood" around dinnertime hoping for a chance to partake of her culinary delights? Without a moment's hesitation, my mom would whip up a plate for them, concocting brand new meals if necessary. I, unfortunately, did not inherit this gift. The very thought of having to feed more hungry people makes me want to beat myself over the head with a rolling pin. This beating might take some time, however, since I first must FIND the rolling pin which is probably buried in some far, dark corner of a kitchen cabinet under other dusty and lonely cooking utensils. (A rolling pin is a cooking utensil, right?) The truth is, I had no idea how good I had it in the food department until I went off to college and realized creamy chicken pot pies, succulent steaks with buttery baked potatoes, and cheesy lasagnas served with warm garlic bread don't just cook themselves in the kitchen, even if you send out good thoughts and positive affirmations to your oven.

But, as everyone knows, genius feeds on new ideas and new ideas must be tested. How else does creative talent evolve? And so, my dad, brother, and I occasionally became her guinea pigs for unusual recipes that... took the road less travelled. Most of the time, they turned out okay, but every now and then, her meal experiments resulted in cuisinary carnage that no amount of smiling or "mmm-hmmm"ing could cover up. (No offense, Mom.)

Such was the case on my seventh birthday. It was going to be the slumber party of the year, maybe even the decade. I was convinced that future second grade girls would look across the field to the upper grade playground, point in my direction, and whisper to eachother, "Yeah, there she is! She's the one who had that slumber party!" The games, snacks, dancing, and singing would be legendary. But most importantly, my mom was making the most amazing cake these girls would ever sink their baby teeth into. It was a checkerboard cake and it was magnificent! Almost too beautiful to eat. It looked a lot like this: This cake did, however, have one fatal flaw. My mom, after successfully pulling a perfect checkerboard cake from the oven, decided to "try something new" with the frosting. Now, I'm no Julia Childs, but even I could tell you this was a bad idea: sour cream cake frosting. SOUR CREAM FROSTING on a CAKE! This would make perfect sense if she was serving pieces of a gigantic baked potato for dessert, but on a CAKE? To this day, I've never seen such torment on the faces of cake eaters as I did at that slumber party. Needless to say, that exquisite cake went largely untouched and my mom has never made it since. I'm sure my tireless heckling over the years about the "Sour Cream Cake Frosting Incident" has squelched any aspirations to do so.

As for my own children's birthday party this weekend, it was a total success, despite my poor judgement in planning a party theme. Everyone came laughing and left crying. A good time was had by all. I realized though that the only reason I make such a big deal about the "Sour Cream Cake Frosting Incident" is because my mom set the bar so high. Those rare blunders are just ASKING to be pantsed right in the middle of the playground. I have to pick on Mother Poppins about something! My children will not be tempted to taunt me in this way. They will spend their childhood being surprised when I don't screw things up. And that's just the way I like it. As I've always said, "Keep the expectations low, so no one's disappointed." Words to live by.