I think it’s cupcake story day.
I don’t have a great spring cleaning tale or anything exciting happening, since we’ve just moved out, and have had one heck of a week doing so.
Sprinkle in some late nights with friends, scrubbing a year’s worth of gunk from my stove/fridge/dishwasher/microwave and kitchen cupboards, working 8 to 5, a cat that hasn’t stopped crying because I won’t let him outside at the new apartment and you’ve got the week I’ve had.
It was one to remember, er, maybe actually to forget. All I can say is that I’m glad we’re at a stopping point, and yet I can’t wait to do it again to move into our new place.
Anyway, back to the cupcake. We’ve been thinking about the spaz children both of us were/are, and how it’s going to translate to our own kids, in the not-too-distant future.
One of Phil’s favorite stories of me as a little girl is one about a picnic and a cupcake.
As you know (or can assume), I love food. Always have, always will. It’s a “well-earned comfort” (now I just need a pipe and some hobbits to teach me how to blow smoke circles). please excuse, for Kylee.
We were at Chip and Ginny Derr’s awesome log cabin in the woods in the spring when I was probably eight years old. They had this smorgasbord of food out on their front porch, tables streaming full of food, and most importantly, chocolate cupcakes for dessert. It was a pretty big group, and when my turn to go through the line came, I made sure to get one of those cupcakes right away. My dad said:
“Now, Abby, you’ve had one cupcake, and you may only have one. That’s enough.”
Um, so I plunked my eight-year-old bottom on their stairs and ate my plate of deliciousness, and ate that cupcake last. IT was SO glorious.
My perch in reference to the food table was just a few feet—out the front door to the porch—and all the adults were in conversation somewhere else; I couldn’t even SEE my dad. How would he know if I had just one tiny one more?
So, I had another one. I thought I was super spy and sneaked out the door and coolly helped myself to another cupcake. I ate it quickly though, just in case. I didn’t see anyone and I thought I was golden.
Spanking the next day, because SOMEHOW my dad knew. To this day, I don’t know how he knew I couldn’t resist the cupcake’s siren call.
It’s so not me. *
*actually, it is me. I would do a lot for a special treat. Phil knows. That’s why this story is his favorite. Goose flag story to come. xoxo.