Yes, I missed a few days after my previous post. Let’s move on.

Dinner. I love dinner. Especially when someone makes it for me. Not so much when I have to make it myself. But the reality is such that I have to. And not just for two people. If it’s just me and my husband we are very willing to scrounge for food and eat what’s available/edible. After work and daycare pick up the last thing I want to do is cook. I run on exactly 10% battery after 5 pm so I have absolutely no interest in socializing with my kitchen.

This all sounds great. But I own a child. Like it has to be fed and clothed, etc. Since I am always experiencing mom guilt (we will explore this topic later) I try to whip up some sort of home cooked meal every other day at least. On Mondays he eats leftovers ’cause I inevitably cook something on the weekend that I stow away. Tuesday to Friday is a mystery. “What to make for dinner” is a thought that plagues me all through my workday. I don’t put this much thought in to anything else.

As I tap through my keyboard or sip my coffee all I think about is the contents of my refrigerator that I can summon into cooked food. “Should I use the shriveled up broccoli or make pasta? Should I cook him oats? Is there a banana at home? ‘Cause that’s the only way he’ll eat oats. He didn’t have rice yesterday so maybe I should make khichdi. But I do not have the patience to watch over a cooker and nor do I have any vegetables. Ooooh, I will defrost the chicken and boil the potatoes and – ” that’s as far as my thought process goes by this time it’s 5 pm. My son is home and I have given him veggie chips, two slices of cheese and an egg. I will then pour milk into him and pray to the good Lord that he sleeps at an appropriate time.

I do not worry about Wednesdays. Cause Wednesday is chocolate croissant day. We go to the bakery after pick up for a treat and I watch as my scrawny two year old inhales a buttery chocolate croissant.

I am an ardent lover of cake. I worship under its delicious alter and bow my head to it’s buttercream frosting. I don’t just love any cake. There are criteria that needs to be met. For non creamy cakes, nothing can beat good old McRennet’s tea cake with no walnuts. Soft, fluffy and perfectly appropriate to finish the whole box in a sitting, something I have done on multiple occasions.

Cream cakes can be decadent but can also be fake news. The fake news cream cake tricks you into believing that under that disgusting amount of cream lies a cake. False. Lies. Underneath all that frosting plus whipped cream (yuck) is the tiniest evidence that once upon a time there might have been cake there. This is the spawn of the devil.

Perfect cream cakes are the ones that have a sensible ratio of frosting to cake. My dream ratio is 1:4. Just the right amount of frosting to add to the sweetness without leaving you to die in a sugar coma. 

Last year I was on a quest to find my son the most perfect first birthday cake that looked good and met all my requirements. I was not prepared to shell out money to purchase a fondant cake that looked like a cartoon character or an animal or whatever it is that kids want their cakes to look like. Imagine biting into a beautiful looking fondant cake only to find that the insides taste like cardboard. Nightmare.

I wanted a proper birthday cake that tasted spectacular. The stars aligned and I found my dream bakery that makes my dream cake. For Reyhan’s first birthday I ordered a beautiful chocolate cake with raspberry filling and buttercream frosting. I was looking forward to Reyhan’s second birthday which much anticipation because milestones, baby growing, yadda, yadda, but also because I ordered a banana cake with cream cheese frosting. And it was the best darn cake I’ve ever put in my mouth. I cannot even begin to describe the moist, banana cake generously surrounded with cream cheese. It sounds like a strange combination but it was sublime.

I ate leftover cake for breakfast four days in a row. Tomorrow though, I will have to eat an egg and be satisfied with my life’s choices.

For the past two years I have been co sleeping with my son. The night starts off innocently enough. A cuddle here, a hug there, some slobbery kisses, and “Mama, Mama, Mama” said about a hundred times before he rolls onto my chest, falling asleep at the crook of my arm. The first year of Reyhan’s life was an absolute shit show since he was a crappy sleeper. He would wake at the tiniest sounds and take hours to fall asleep so this rolling all over my body until he knocks out is a welcome change. 

After the pre requisite rounds of “Mama, Mama” and after my arm is deaden from supporting a drooling toddler’s head, I roll on to my back and lay there until time passes me by. I cannot muster up the will to get up from my bed and move on with my life. By the time Reyhan is completely knocked out it is 9 pm and I am no neanderthal to stay up past that ungodly hour. And it is not for want of things to do, believe me, I have many things that need “doing”. But after 9 pm my body just gives up. Every night I mentally go over my to-do list, fret and worry about all the things I have to do, work myself up to an anxious mess and even try to bribe myself to get up. By the time I am done with my mental gymnastics, it’s 9.30 and the sandman has dumped a shit tonne of sand on my eyes and no earthly being can wake me. Except when Reyhan moves clockwise in his sleep and proceeds to kick the small of my back ALL. NIGHT. LONG. Until I lose my mind and shove him near his father. 

A night with a toddler is never uneventful. I yearn for the nights when I’d fall asleep and wake up only once – in the morning. No sane person needs to be woken up multiple times a night. Once Reyhan woke me up in the middle of the night and cried, “Mama, car. Car, mama. Car. Car.” 

I lovingly smashed his head onto the pillow and whispered “Close your eyes and go to sleep” in a menacing voice. It did the trick for that one night.