You know those days you have where you feel as though you’re being reminded of how bad a mummy you are?
I had one of those today. And most of it wasn’t even in my control.
You see, I’m one of those Mummy’s who used to be more involved, but, because I don’t have the regularly maintained, super short, easy to manage haircut, and I like wearing jeans and can’t be bothered with stupid friggin politics about whose cake icing flower things had more effort put into them (I dont’ even know how to make those cake icing flower things, and have no desire to learn) I’ve given up on being on the school parent committee. I read to/with my kids every night, and yell at them a lot about their homework that they’re not doing.
I’ve done my bit, as far as I can see.
But the school fete is on today. And I have been planning all week to make a cake for the cake stall. A big ask, given the standard of cakes produced by mums at our school, and knowing mine is going to be no-where near as well presented. Despite this, I was determined to brush off the fear of impending “look at her cake” comments, and make one anyway. I wasn’t even going to compare mine with the others there.
(And for the record, I make a friggin’ awesome cake!)
Grumpy goes off to the market for meat and vegies and leaves me some time in the kitchen to make the cake.
The best laid plans and all that …
Not a worry, he will only be gone an hour, hour and a half, tops, and I will still have plenty of time to make the cake, allow it to cool, ice it, write the ingredients, bag it up and get it to the fete on time.
Only he doens’t come home after an hour.
Or an hour and a half.
Or two hours.
Or two and half hours.
The longer he is, the greater my pissed off levels increase.
Eventually, 3 hours and 48 minutes later, he returns. His only saving grace was that he had eggs. He went to his Mums, which is lovely, but a small amount of communication would have been most helpful. It would have allowed me to explain my eggless predicament.
He had left me a total of 23 minutes to make, bake, cool and ice a cake for the fete. My one redeeming activity for the school year and he is completely incapable of understanding why I cried (a lot), yelled (a lot more) and told him not to fucking bother about the fucking cake and him making one instead of me was missing the point ever so slightly.
We went to the fete anyway, where I had to find a shady spot and feed Chippie, who just kept eyeing off the lady next to me – more specifically her sausage in bread – and making her feel awful about eating it. Spent far too much money on lollies and other crap, missed out on doing the thing I wanted to do, and was seriously disappointed to see no chocolate cake – the biggest seller – at the cake stall.
That made me feel really bad.