Its day three of creativity boot camp and the random word of the day is multilayered. So without further ado, here goes nothing and my interpretation of the word "Multilayered."
When my daughter was getting ready to turn five, she had a deep-rooted obsession with all things princess. Her room was decked out in princess style everything. For her fifth birthday I spent hours crafting princess inspired invitations, putting together princess worthy gift bags and designing her birthday cake. It was going to be a huge feat, but I had faith that if I woke up early enough I could put together a castle cake that would make even Cinderella jealous.
Let's just say it did not go so well.
Why? you ask. One word.
Well, actually two.
He decided that he knew how to make a princess cake better than me, so he took over and began hacking up the sheet cakes I spent all morning (and I mean all morning, the scent of yellow cake and butter cream frosting was permeating the air at three thirty in the morning as Michael Buble crooned dreamily on the radio, his deliciously smooth voice keeping me company as I worked) making. He had no idea what I was doing, or even how I was going about it.
Angrily, I stepped back and watched as he hacked and destroyed, piling drifts of thick frosting onto the haphazard, leaning stacks of cake, all the while thinking to myself, what in God's name does he think he's doing?
After several minutes of unsuccessful frosting, Steve put down the spatula and turned to me, eyebrows knitted together in unspoken frustration and said, "I give up, you can do it."
I looked at him, appalled. I could do it; I could try to fix what he screwed up. I wanted to hit him. I don't condone spousal abuse, but this one time I could have just decked him and not felt guilty. He did, after all, deserve it.
I took the spatula from him, turning my back so he couldn’t see the angry tears spilling down my face. I tried to fix it, tried piecing the cake back together but it just looked...well, if I'm being honest, horrid. It was a multilayered monstrosity. a layer of cake here, a glob of frosting there, another layer of cake tossed on top. so I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed the trashcan and pressed the lever. the lid swung up swiftly, anxiously anticipating the delectable treat I was about to toss into its waiting mouth. then I swept the mess into the trashcan, watching as what could have been tumbled over the side of the island, bits and pieces breaking off and falling to the floor as the cake tumbled toward the trashcan.
Steve came back into the kitchen, standing in the doorway a look of horror on his face. "What are you doing?" he cried.
I bit my tongue, swallowing the angry stream of vulgar profanities that fought their way back up my throat. Instead, I looked at him and said, "It was never going to work. Kenzie!"
My giddy five year old bounced into the kitchen, looking around, her eyes searching the counters for the princess cake that would not be. "Mommy can't make the princess cake. How do you feel about Sponge Bob instead?"
"I like Sponge Bob," she said and skipped out of the kitchen.
I breathed a sigh of relief, that was too easy, I thought as I started pulling out the necessary ingredients all the while ignoring my hover husband.
"Are you mad?" he asked me.
You bet your ass I am, I thought. I looked, smiling sweetly and said, "No, why would I be?"
"Just wondering," he said and ambled out of the kitchen.
The Sponge Bob cake turned out beautifully, but I was left with this ache in my stomach. My daughter wanted something that I was unable to give her, all because my husband decided I was too...I don't know, daft to pull off a castle birthday cake.
It's been almost three years since that birthday party, and never once have I told my husband what he did to me that day.
It's okay though, because he no longer comes into the kitchen when I bake birthday cakes.
*This is a fictitious take on a real story, there was supposed to be a castle cake, it did not work out, and was later turned into a sponge bob cake. *