a cupcake is a cupcake

There is chick lit novel for Mama’s called “I Don’t Know How She Does It”. It opens with a scene where our heroine a working mother of young children can be found damaging her perfectly-formed store bought tarts for her child’s holiday celebration. She didn't want any of the other moms to know that her treats weren't homemade.

True confessions: I find that scene quaint. Sure it is funny and meant to evoke some camaraderie with other working moms. And sure, it does that.

Except not really. It makes my latent competitiveness rear its ugly head. I’ll go ahead and further admit that on the subject of homemade food, I succumb to all of the stereotypical one-up-womanship that the media portrays between the stay-at-homes and professionals.

I make treats. I make lunches. I make dinners. I make birthday cakes, cookies, muffins, cake pops. So when the note came home asking for cupcakes for the 4^th grade to decorate and take to a food pantry, I was ON IT!

Right up until the morning that Sam was walking out the door and called, almost absentmindedly over his shoulder, ‘oh, yea, Mom [because I’m MOM now], I need those cupcakes’. I was so busy that week with work, home, life, whatever. Do the details matter? I forgot. Flat out, forgot. Even when Sam said it, there was only a flicker of recognition.

The kids were walking out the door so that my mom could drive them to school and I could get to work early so that I could…..again…..detail don’t matter. I forgot the cupcakes.

Kids to school. Off to Wegmans. Please please please Danny, don’t fail me now.  I’m mentally making a back up plan, that does not include letting down the kids or shafting the shelter or denying anyone an overly frosted cupcake. One package of Duncan Hines and an hour, I could get that done. Whether Betty Crocker or Danny Wegmans, there’s no difference, I’m already bruising tarts.

I darted to the bakery. Pinned the young baker and tried not to holler my request for unfrosted cupcakes. “yes”, she said. HOOORRRRRAAY! Fresh from the cooler, out she came with my choice of vanilla or chocolate.

$11 later, and no, we are not going to do that per unit math, I secured the cupcakes. I made it to school before the boys were even in the door so I got my moment of glory by delivering the goods to Sam’s hands in front of his brothers, thereby further securing my position of heroine. They were perfect, store-made, price tag on, unfrosted cupcakes and my little man wasn't bruised from disappointment.