The Truth about Baking a Cake

I programmed myself to wake up at 6 a.m. just so I could write.
I have been missing this time.
The rest of the world is asleep now, and I can sneak into my own heart.
Because once everyone wakes up, it belongs to them...and that is exactly how I want it.

When this life is over, my heart will be the most ragged stuffed animal.
It will be the t-shirt I can't give up.  The one so thin it looks like cheeze cloth.
It will be my 28 year old brother's baby blanket, whittled down to a 1 foot square and still draped over his shoulders in the morning.
It will be my husband's Big Book held together by duct tape, with a broken spine, and highlighted paragraphs.  The pages soft and brittle on the edges, like Grandma's skin.

I get hurt often, and I am grateful.
There is a line from the Big Book which I often meditate on, and it says:

"...we invariably find that at some time in the past we have made decisions based on self which later placed us in a position to be hurt."

In the margins I have written:

"I am not a victim."   and    "Not so bad, that I am human."  I am a willing participant in this human race.


Yesterday my daughter Sophie decorated her cousin's birthday cake.  He is turning 10 and he loves Batman.

We went to the craft store and bought black fondant.  She is pumped.  We baked cakes the night before. They sat perched on the kitchen counter, waiting to be draped in Batman's cape and logo.
She watches Cake Boss  with the eager face of a teenage groupie.
That guy can dream up any cake and make it happen with precision.
So, in her mind, her cake is supposed to be masterful.  It is the 2nd time she has used fondant...in her life.
To her, this does not matter.  She is supposed to be able to make her cake look like "The Boss's" cake.

I coach her through, just as my mentors have done for me.  They remind me that I am learning, and to take it slow.  This is impossible for me.  My ambition drives me smack into the solid wall of reality.  It hurts.

"Ugh!  This fondant work is sloppy!  Look there's a hole in it!"
She stomps around in her boots and sticky fingers, fluffing hair from her eyes.

"It's okay Sophie.  I promise, people won't see it as you do.  It is a small hole.  Let's wrap a band of fondant around the bottom to hold the frosting in.  It is good to learn to work with your mistakes. Because you will make them.  You are learning. It's okay.  It looks better than you think."

"No Mom! It is NOT ok!  It looks terrible!  I hate it!"

I remember this.  I remember studying art in school and feeling this way.  I had an idea of the painting but couldn't execute it.  My professor would say,
You have to paint a hundred bad paintings before you will paint one good one.
To which my head would respond,
Not me.  I'm going to paint a good one, now.

But he was right.  I am only barely able to paint...kind of...how I want to...sometimes.

I know she will kick against me.  I know I can't take away her frustration, because it comes from hope.  It comes from caring.  I will simply keep telling her the truth, no matter how many years it takes, for both of us to bring about the desires of our hearts.