Every time I try to be June Cleaver, I end up like Joan Crawford.

Birthdays really bring out the worst in me. It happens to be one of the few occasions during the year I actually look forward to. So much so, my unbridled enthusiasm ends up crushing my plans and in some of the worst ways possible.

Today is my daughter’s 2nd birthday. Here’s a quick recap of how my celebratory endeavors turned ugly. Fast.

June Cleaver was my muse as I began the day by dressing my daughter up in some frilly pink clothing. (Truly out of character; I never dress her in pink clothing.) (Red flag #1.)

Dropping my daughter off at her school, I’m eager to get back to my kitchen to bake some cupcakes.

I never bake. (Red flag #2.)

Back in my kitchen, I’m zen as I assemble and combine my ingredients.

I’m never zen. And certainly NEVER in the kitchen. (Red Flag #3.)

I start to whistle. (Perhaps the biggest Red Flag of them all?)

I place my cupcakes in the oven to bake, and I wait. In what resembles a 1950s housewife type of Valium induced fog, I find myself in the bathroom actually trimming my cuticles with a cuticle remover.

I own such a tool? (Red Flag #4.)

Several minutes later (about 20 to be precise), I begin to smell baking soda and burning. Exit fog. Panicked; I begin thinking about how dirty my oven is, and my mind goes berserk. Have I cleaned it lately? If so, with what? Toxic chemicals? Did I use the self-cleaning option? Does that even WORK??

I feel my blood pressure spike; I have to bring these cupcakes to my daughter’s nursery school for a party in 45 minutes!

Borderline bonkers, I conduct a Google search on the heat of ovens and how they can vary from one to the next. I read that my oven is probably “normal” hot. Sigh. Thank you, Google. You are my church.

I breathe and then spot some sugar and flour on the counter near my blender; I missed a spot? I run to the cabinet and grab my trusty Method spray and take care of it, post haste!

The burning smell returns, this time accompanied by smoke and my detector’s alarm. I open the oven and see that the once happy, rising tops of my cupcakes have now fallen flat, hard and blackish. Oh, and I have about 3 minutes to cool and frost them.

I run into the bathroom again, flash blow dry my hair into a mangled frizz bomb, and sprint back into the kitchen; helpless but bound and determined to salvage at least five cupcakes.

Note: This is where a rational woman would stop and admit defeat, head to the store and pick up an alternative. HA! Not this delusional momma.

My daughter and her friends will have cupcakes; even if they are burned, damnit…  and they’ll like them!

I place everything in Tupperware, and I’m off!

Just as I aggressively pull the door shut, I spot my keys on the table (about 8 feet away from me). SLAM. Locked out.

It’s pouring rain.

As good luck in bad situations would have it; I spot an umbrella on my porch. I grab it with force and anger; my mind quickly fleets to the image of Mommie Dearest grabbing a handful of her daughter’s hair as she screams; “SCRUB, Christina… SCRUUUHB!”

I begin speed walking to my daughter’s school, zig-zagging around puddles like a mime (I neglected to mention, I’m wearing the thinnest sandals I own), trying not to drop two awkwardly balanced Tupperware containers full of charred cupcakes. Smiling at passing cars, crying, and then, eventually laughing myself back into that lovely fog.

9 thoughts on “Every time I try to be June Cleaver, I end up like Joan Crawford.

  1. I think I saw one of those plastic bracelets that read “What would Joan do?” or was it June? I can’t remember, I was in a fog at the time.

  2. Love, love, love this post! My now 23-year-old daughter had a Halloween party in kindergarten and I was responsible for making popcorn balls. Lots of syrup + lots of floor = the messiest, happiest years of my life. I wish I could go back and raise her all over again.

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