Talismans
don’t usually participate in things like Love Thursdays, but these cupcakes demanded it. These cupcakes are love. They are everything I feel about being Sabrina’s mother, every little ounce of maternal feeling I have, iced and topped with a Smartie.
We all have those non-negotiables; those purely personal markers we cling to to reassure ourselves that we are doing a good job, that we are good mothers. I’m not talking about the external things, the things that strangers see–a meltdownfree trip to the mall or a good report card. And not the intangible “raising positive human beings,” either. I mean that thing that deep in your mind you believe represents your success as a mom. I mean the one thing, no matter how frivilous or trivial, that you believe real mothers do, and that you yourself must do in order to be a “real” mother.
For me, it’s the cupcakes. You see, I hate cooking. And baking. The cooking is somewhat non-negotiable (although I’m not above caging meals off of my mom to avoid it), but the baking? The baking is utterly negotiable. But not really, because I pretty much only bake 4 times a year: Cookies for Thanksgiving, brownies for the class bakesale, and birthday cupcakes to take to school and share with the class. That’s it. Any other time of the year, and I’m all about the storebought.
But, for me, “real” mothers bake for the bakesale, and they certainly don’t send in storebought treats to celebrate their daughter’s big day. Real mothers bake cupcakes, even if they end up accidentally starting a fire in the kitchen (everyone’s fine! no damage to speak of.) or teaching their toddlers an exciting new word after burning themselves on the oven for the third time. Real mothers have beaters and bowls and spoons to be licked, creating sticky faced memories that will last long after the treats themselves have been devoured. Real mothers go the extra mile and add the candy on top of the icing , declaring to the world that these cupcakes are special.
I dread the annual baking of the cupcakes. It’s time consuming and messy and something inevitably goes wrong. But year after year, I pull out the bowl and the measuring cup, dust off the mixer, and bake cupcakes. Lots and lots of cupcakes. Enough for every kid in Diva Girl’s class to have one. Enough for her teacher. Enough for her grandparents and sister and whatever aunts and uncles and cousins might be celebrating with us. By the time I’m done, I’ve had more than enough of cupcakes, but I make one for me too.
I make them because I love my daughter. Because being her mother is the central core of who I am. And so long as those homemade cupcakes are iced, topped, and ready to take to school on the birthday morning, I can assure myself that I’ve got it together, that I’m not doing too badly at this whole motherhood thing. Because real mothers bake cupcakes, and if the cupcakes are baked, that must mean I’m a “real” mother, even if the kitchen is a mess.
(Sorry about the crap picture. I was working with an unfamiliar camera.)