So, there I am, cakes baked, cut to size and shape and spread out before me.
Two batches of icing are in front of me. It is 8.37am and I have no wine. As much as I’d like some about now.
I embark on the coating of cakes in high butter, high sugar sticky yet colourful substances, whilst a two year old gets between me and the cakes and drives a train up and down and up and down and runs into my spatula and says “too’ too'” really loudly, and I can’t gaurantee the butter, sugary, coloury concoction doesn’t now contain toddler saliva. I prefer to remain ignorant.
As I’m icing and constructing the creation, I realise just how awesome my kids’ mum is!
Not only have I created a masterpiece, but I have also successfully delved into the psyche of the ten year old boy in the process of creating.
Yes. Although, to be honest, I’m not sure that this is something to be proud of. Nor something I should be declaring publicly.
Still, I created a Lego man cake. That’s not the best bit. Nor is it the “ten year old boy psyche” bit.
The head of the Lego man is a simple butter cake. Knowing, just knowing, the other party goers will request the head comes off at cake cutting time, I have coloured it pink. I don’t stop there. I have also filled the mix with frozen rasberries. I have no idea if this is a good idea from an eating perspective. I do know that when the head is cut into, however, as it inevitably will be, it will be pink and red and lumpy and everyone will go “eeeeeuuw gross, that is awesome”
Because they are ten year old boys.
I also made the arms green inside. And just to fuck with their heads a bit, I added some strawberry flavouring.
An hour before the party start time, several of the many In Laws appear, unannounced, and make several hilarious comments about how stressed we look. Then it is time for me to leave with the eldest of my two boys, to attend a Lego workshop. With nine other boys.
Another one of my brilliant, well thought out and sensible ideas. Also, that last sentence may or may not have been loaded with sarcasm.
I endure an hour of watching Lego creations being created them filmed, and realise the major flaw in my brilliant plan when I am left alone, with ten 7 – 10 year old boys and required to walk them 15 minutes to a nearby park. Across a major road. To food and drinks and cake.
Ten 7-10 year old boys are disgustingly noisy.
The food wasn’t there when we arrived.
It arrived shorlty thereafter.
After much stuffing of face, running around crazy-like and making lots of noise, it was time for cake cutting. As is tradition for us, and particularly at Monkey Boy’s gatherings, it was far too windy to light the candles. This did not stop ten 7-10 year old boys requesting to light the canldes.
“Sure,” I say facetiously to one of them. “Your mother will be so impressed I have taught you how to light matches. She will say ‘isn’t she awesome?'”
“You are awesome,” he informed me. And a small part of my heart melted and if it wouldn’t be perceived as wrong, I think I loved him just a little bit. I very well nearly adopted him there and then. But then my senses took over as someone arrived with wine and all was right in my world.
We even managed to get the candles lit, the “happy birthday” sung and, the encore, the Lego man’s head removed from his body with the aid of an extremely sharp knife when a butter knife would have sufficed.
The end of the party arrived, at which point it entered my mind that lolly bags are usually the go and I’d totally forgotten this particular necessity.
Thankfully, the capacity to relate to ten year old boys has not yet escaped me and I resort to “lollybags are for babies!”