Two for Me; Two for You

Bubba turned two this week and I can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that we’ve been parents for two years now. For Steve and myself, Bub’s birthdays are a celebration for us making it another year together, a birth-day/anniversary for me delivering him, and a reminder that he is growing up so fast.

From year one to year two, Bub:

• Learned how to walk

• Learned how to talk

• Learned how to pee and poop on the potty

• Learned to say “thank you” and “sorry”

• Learned how to ask for things and about things

• Learned how to count

• Learned how to read a book to himself

Someone told us recently, “You won’t know it, but someday you’ll pick him up for the last time.” I thought to myself, “Does that happen between year two and year three? Gosh, I hope not. I’m not ready for that.”

We are reminded that every day we get to spend with our child is truly a gift.

Happy Birthday, Bub! We love you!

33, Be Good to Me

I’ve wanted to make Flo Braker’s buttermilk cake for over a year, ever since I heard about it on the Home Cooking podcast. The podcast has been a great source of comfort for me during the pandemic. I listen to it almost every day. Apparently, rewatching movies or shows, or in my case, listening to the same music (hi, Phoebe Bridgers) and podcast over and over is a way for anxious people to control their emotions in a world that feels out of whack.

For my birthday this year, I was determined to make this buttermilk cake. A week before, I remembered to buy buttermilk and cake flour. Yesterday, I sent Steve to the store to buy butter and parchment paper.

He came back with salted butter and wax paper. Close, but not the same.

Also realizing I didn’t have a hand mixer and that my butter wasn’t at room temperature, I gave up on this double-layer cake with chocolate sabayon frosting being picture perfect.

At 10 pm on a Saturday, Steve and I deliriously giggled our way through dolloping lumpy cake batter into misshapen muffin cups and mixing whipping cream by hand until our arms hurt. The mini cakes looked like they were sat on, but they were buttery and delicious. After 12 minutes of whipping the cream, it suddenly and miraculously stiffened. And shockingly, we had fresh strawberries in the fridge, which we almost never do.

We laughed and ate until our stomachs grumbled hurt.

“I’ll remember this when I’m old,” I told Steve.

Making this cake was somewhat symbolic of the year I’ve had. Riddled with panic attacks, triggered by not being the perfect parent, 32 has taught me that my mental health has taken a toll and needs tending to. Perfectionism is what I continue to strive for and when life isn’t perfect, I beat myself up for it. The chronic guilt has cancelled a lot of the inner work I had done before I had a baby. Should’ve, Could’ve, Would’ve pepper my thoughts relentlessly.

But through it all this year, Steve has been there for me. Somehow, he makes me laugh even when I don’t think I ever will again.

I hope 33 is more of the latter laughter and less of the former guilt. I hope 33 is onwards and upwards and not constantly feeling downtrodden by my own thoughts. I hope 33 is peace and not panic.