"hearts can break and never mend together" - Jefferson Starship, 'Hearts'

Hearts

Ahhh, Valentine's Day. It's an important holiday to many people. I, personally, can't remember ever getting anything for Valentine's Day. I'm sure I have (I haven't exactly been a loner my whole life), but nothing springs to mind. But this year, there is an added level to the holiday cheer. Preschoolers are Super Duper Pumped about the holiday. And, of course, SC is gung ho - with his own style, of course.

SC's preschool - Land Of The Methodists - encourages each child to bring Valentine's Day cards for each one of the kids in their class. That totals 12. SC's sitter encourages each child to bring Valentine's Day cards for each one of the young kids at the sitter. That totals 10. In addition, SC has to bring a treat to the sitter for those 10 kids. Last year, if I recall, there was a scramble to get cards and a treat for the sitter. This, year, though, I was on the ball. We got cards super early, and we got like three times more than we needed in case SC changed cartoon allegiances in between early and mid February. This afternoon, we sat down at the dining room table to organize and sign the 22 cards. SC held the marker, and I held my hand over his. He can write the first two letters of his four letter name, but has issues with the last two. He was in control of the marker for the first two, and I was more in control for the final ones. It was painstaking, but I was proud anyway. He keeps showing aptitude for math, and I'm like grrrr, who needs MATH and I keep pushing the writing and reading thing on him because we all know that pushing things on kids is a viable option for those wanting their kids to become something specific. Anyway, he got bored after like five cards and I spent some time writing his name the way that he would write it. I didn't want to write it in my gorgeous handwriting and make the teachers think that he was some genius and then take him to genius handwriting school and he's all confused about how to write a lowercase E, and he keeps calling "I" "Ki" when he says the alphabet. As I was writing, he was using stickers to seal the cards, which was not apparently his level of expertise, so I had to keep surreptitiously fixing them when he was crawling around on the ground, singing a song about eating bugs.

Well, after the cards were assembled and placed in the proper spots to assure that we would remember them in the morning, I looked at the reminder from the sitter about what to bring on Monday. I noticed that SC needed a snack to bring. Last year, I bought strawberry applesauce, because I was in a healthy mom mode. A year later, I know how the world really works, so strawberry applesauce wasn't going to cut it. We needed sugar. I entertained the idea of making cookies from scratch, but it was quickly eschewed. I grabbed SC and we headed out to the grocery store to get a box cake, frosting and cupcake liners.

I don't know if you've ever been a single mom before - I'm guessing no - but sometimes, it grates on you so badly that you want to curl up in a ball in the corner and cry. SC is a great kid, but he had been talking for 23.7 of the past 24 hours, and my poor head was throbbing. Still, I managed to hide my frustration from SC. It's not his fault that he never, ever, ever shuts up. As we got out of the car at the grocery store, I put his shoe back on (they "fall off" in the backseat, like drunk people from the Golden Gate Bridge, no matter how short of a ride we take), grabbed his hand, and listened to him babble about his imaginary friend in the sky (not Jesus, actually... Frank). We navigated the crowded Sunday afternoon grocery store and grabbed some boxes of cake mix and frosting. And water. We also got little mini bottles of water for me. (If you drink them fast enough, you can make yourself believe that they're vodka!). We went through the do it yourself checkout and I let SC scan. We got back home and I realized... I forgot the little cupcake liners. With a sigh, I briefly daydreamed about a world where I had another adult in the house to go get me some, but then I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out pans to make a regular cake. As I looked at the shapes of baking pans that I had at my disposal, I envisioned a cake that was in the shape of a heart. I had a bowl that could be used as a baking dish for the main part of the heart, and if I baked another small cake in a small square, I could cut that up and make the edges... I had it all worked out. Really.

So combine, stir, pour, bake. The cakes come out, I let them cool. Eventually, it's time to make the final cake. I turn the bowl over onto a platter and the cake comes out - beautiful. I turn the square over, and that cake plops out, too. So far, so good. I congratulate myself on my baking prowess. I literally pat myself on the back. I am on fire. (Not literally that time). I cut the edges of the square and place them around the circle. It's a heart! It's a yellow heart. I am so proud. I contemplate taking a picture for the blog post I will write about what a Genius Baker I am. I grab the icing. I spread a hunk over the cake and... the top layer of the cake sticks to the frosting and curls up onto the knife.

Undaunted, I spread the frosting a little more slowly, a little more carefully. I try to make the edges even before filling them in. I stand on one foot and dab, dab, dab the smallest amount of chocolate at the very bottom. I talk to the cake. Oh, sweet cake, stay together. You're in the shape of a heart... you LOVE yourself! The cake does not listen. No matter how careful I am, the cake ends up a ball of yellow and brown. I stare at it and try to figure out a way to make it into a new kind of dessert. Cake-l-sauce? Mashed cake? Earthqcake? I spoon it into a big, pretty bowl and work on the presentation. Perhaps a dollop of more frosting on the top? I stick two popsicles into the top and make a kind of space alien. Are space aliens Valentiney? I'm in the middle of trying to attach two M&M's to the popsicles when I stop, defeated.

It's no use.

I throw the popsicles away, scoop up a bit of the cake and icing goulash, and stick my finger into my mouth. It's good... but not presentable. Resigned, I slide the pretty bowl into the corner and sigh. Dreams of "Me, Pasty Chef" fizzle out in my brain like a slug in salt. I talk to myself, tell myself that it's okay. I don't have to be good at everything. I'll leave the baking to the experts. Tomorrow morning, I'll stop at the grocery store and get some pink applesauce. Why break a tradition?