Cake Catastrophe

It’s the final night of our cake decorating class. I’m so happy I convinced my teenage daughter to come with me—I’m storing up every minute of the precious time we have left, trying to find ways to connect before she flies. Here we are with our final exams ready to take home—two one-layer cakes, beautifully decorated and lightly covered with Saran wrap. I’m so proud of us. We graduated from practicing on sugar cookies, to cupcakes, and now each hold our magnum opus: one blue and one yellow cake topped with buttercream bouquets, scallops, and stars.

“What will we do with our creations?” I ask after we cradle them carefully in the trunk of the car.

“Uhm, eat them?”

I laugh, but honestly, we don’t need two more desserts at our house. “Maybe I’ll take mine to school and share it with my teacher friends at lunch. Why don’t you ask a couple of girls over after school and you can enjoy yours as a special Friday afternoon mini-party?”

Emelyn perks up at my suggestion, and I love myself for thinking of it. She’s immediately texting her group chat. We live close enough to the high school for them to meander over at dismissal and let themselves in. They’ll feel grown-up with the house to themselves before I get home from work.

“They’re both coming!” She tells me the next day as we rush through our morning routines—snacks, lunch money, feed Bailey, grab book bags, out the door and into the car, my cake still in the trunk ready for the teachers’ room, hers beautifully adorning the corner of our countertop.

“Make good choices! Kiss-kiss! Love you, bye!” Drop offs, then we are off in four different directions for the next seven hours.

I’m pretty tickled to tell my friends about the family bonding brought about by Wilton decorating tips. My cake is a surprise lunchtime treat which we finish with a cup of coffee to tide us over until dismissal.

I’m imagining Emie proudly experiencing the same—she must be home by now—as I finish bus duty and head back into my classroom to tidy up. The cell phone on my desk is buzzing for attention. “Hello?”

“Mom! You need to come home right away!” Emelyn sounds desperate, frantic, a panic that shoots adrenaline straight into my bloodstream.

“Are you ok? Is anyone hurt?”

“Bailey ruined everything!” I hear her tight voice fighting back tears.

“I’ll be right there.” I grab my keys and attempt to break the land-speed record on my five-minute commute.

“What happened?” Three high school girls sit at my kitchen table with somber expressions. Everyone appears intact, no blood.

My daughter points at the English Springer Spaniel coming to greet me. “I’ve been betrayed by my best friend.” Silent sad eyes follow me and the dog around the corner into the kitchen. No reality TV dare could match the mess I’m facing. As Bailey wags her tail, I notice a yellow tinge highlighting her nose and paws.

“Oh my goodness,” I sigh. The front half of Em’s cake is destroyed, smashed into the counter and down the front of the cabinet doors. It’s like a mason took a trowel and stuccoed the interior of my kitchen. I’ll be scraping cake off and cleaning it up for days. I look at my dog, who never jumps on the counter. How did she reach that far back? Well, she is a Springer. . . I picture her bouncing and biting, clawing and scraping until she can’t reach any more. I lift the cake and turn it around. “You would never know it’s half destroyed from this side. I don’t suppose you girls want to cut off the dog’s part and slice it up?”

“Mom!” I feel the eye-roll before I glance at my child.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Let’s see what else we can find in the pantry for you girls.” No matter what I pull from my shelves or refrigerator, the event is sullied beyond repair. Soon the other moms are called and I am left scraping the Salvador Dali style cake dripping down cabinets—my dog’s masterpiece.

“I wanted this to be special for you. I’m so sorry.” I tell Em. I hug her deflated body close and wish I could always make everything work out according to my intentions.

A recent conversation with one of my dear friends comes to mind. I had been worrying how I always seem to get it wrong in my parenting—no matter what I try to do, nothing works out the way I want. “I always seem to make the wrong choice,” I complained. She told me about the best advice she was given when thinking the same thing as a young mother. “You can’t see the future. When you make a choice for your child, and you make it unselfishly from a place of love, it’s the right choice.”

I see that now when my empathetic daughter forgives Bailey. “I’m worried she’s going to be sick to her stomach.”

“Remember the bag of Hershey Kisses she ate last Christmas? She pooped out red and green tinfoil and never got a bit sick.”

Finally, there’s that perfect smile I love.

Your Turn: Did a special plan ever go awry for you? What is your favorite wisdom on making choices with the best of intentions? Do you agree with my friend’s advice?