I don't want to talk about it.
Okay, fine. I will! Let me set the scene... it was Poppy's first birthday and I wanted to make her a cake for her cake smash. It's one of those things that makes me feel like a good mom (as if, somehow, making their birthday cakes will undo any damage I did over the year)
I thought I'd play it cool, calm, and collected since she's my third baby... so I saved the cake until the afternoon of her pictures.
Everything went perfect until it was time to get the cakes out of the pan. Let's just say they didn't want to come out. More than that, each of them broke. Into tiny little crumbled versions of my hopes and dreams. Right there on my counter top.
There I was, an hour before her pictures scrambling to make a new cake AND decorate it before we had to leave.
Lots of tears, swear words, and negative self talk happened that hour-- but damn it! I finished that bad boy and you better believe I never want to see another cake.