Issues
*Posted in 2009
Thank god I am not having a girl. I have so many issues about being a mother already, so many issues about my mother, and so many issues that have to do with femininity that I think I would totally screw up a sweet little girl's head.
Not to say that I guess I won't do that to my sons. . .
My mom always used to make this "sock-it-to-me" cake. We sold it in the restaurant so she would make it at least twice a week (and about 8 cakes a day during the holidays as gifts) and the smell would fill the house. It was a small house, so this smell would permiate the sheets, the carpet, everything. When I was little, I loved the smell. It was a warm scent filled with butter. People loved the cake. It was delicious. But as I got older, the warm smell became cloying. It made me choke and gag. I hated the fact that I could not get away from it. I hated the fact that my mother would slave over the oven all the time making this damn cake. This cake symbolized everything she resented, the restaurant my father made her quit everything for, her sacrificing all her personal time to do things for others, but at the same time, this was the only thing she prided herself with. People loved the cake and it made her so happy. I could not ever make her as happy as when someone complimented her on the cake. Never could the dissapointment of a husband and father make her happy like the cake could.
I learned to hate that damn cake. But it was one of the last things she remembered how to make. I knew things were getting bad when she would mess up the ingredients 75% of the times she made the cakes. the thing that
brought her so much joy, she could not recreate any more. . .
So last night, I decided to make something along the lines of her cake - I don't have the exact recipie, but found something similar. It paled in comparison. I did not love it like she did. I did not care about the outcome and what it meant to her like she did.
It made me sad. Sad to think that so much joy and concern came out of a cake that I resented so much.
I am sure my mother was proud of me. I know she loved me. But she never said it to me. She never showed me because she was never really loved by her mother. She had no idea of what or how to do it.
I try to make sure that I tell Eli I am proud of him. How much I love him. And will do the same with the the new little one. and to show my children that I love and am proud of their father.
We all grow - we all learn from mistakes. I wish my mother could defend herself to this post. . .
Thank god I am not having a girl. I have so many issues about being a mother already, so many issues about my mother, and so many issues that have to do with femininity that I think I would totally screw up a sweet little girl's head.
Not to say that I guess I won't do that to my sons. . .
My mom always used to make this "sock-it-to-me" cake. We sold it in the restaurant so she would make it at least twice a week (and about 8 cakes a day during the holidays as gifts) and the smell would fill the house. It was a small house, so this smell would permiate the sheets, the carpet, everything. When I was little, I loved the smell. It was a warm scent filled with butter. People loved the cake. It was delicious. But as I got older, the warm smell became cloying. It made me choke and gag. I hated the fact that I could not get away from it. I hated the fact that my mother would slave over the oven all the time making this damn cake. This cake symbolized everything she resented, the restaurant my father made her quit everything for, her sacrificing all her personal time to do things for others, but at the same time, this was the only thing she prided herself with. People loved the cake and it made her so happy. I could not ever make her as happy as when someone complimented her on the cake. Never could the dissapointment of a husband and father make her happy like the cake could.
I learned to hate that damn cake. But it was one of the last things she remembered how to make. I knew things were getting bad when she would mess up the ingredients 75% of the times she made the cakes. the thing that
brought her so much joy, she could not recreate any more. . .
So last night, I decided to make something along the lines of her cake - I don't have the exact recipie, but found something similar. It paled in comparison. I did not love it like she did. I did not care about the outcome and what it meant to her like she did.
It made me sad. Sad to think that so much joy and concern came out of a cake that I resented so much.
I am sure my mother was proud of me. I know she loved me. But she never said it to me. She never showed me because she was never really loved by her mother. She had no idea of what or how to do it.
I try to make sure that I tell Eli I am proud of him. How much I love him. And will do the same with the the new little one. and to show my children that I love and am proud of their father.
We all grow - we all learn from mistakes. I wish my mother could defend herself to this post. . .
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