DOUBLE TROUBLE: Sometimes we all need cupcakes for dinner

By Jill Keppeler

I always wanted to be the “cool” mom. Oh, not the kind of mother who lets the kids get away with things they shouldn’t get away with — that’s definitely not cool in the long run — but the kind who makes the time for fun things: surprise trips to the park, cool getaways, neat new foods.

The type who isn’t ashamed to dance to the music from “Sesame Street,” isn’t too grown-up to sit and color in the new “Star Wars” coloring book and doesn’t mind sitting and reading Dr. Seuss books and “Goodnight Moon” for hours on end.

It’s a good dream ... but not one that often stands up to the reality of parenthood. When you’ve had four hours of sleep the night before, work was stressful and your major goal for the evening is getting the kids to sleep so you can clean the bathroom, fun just doesn’t seem like it’s very ... well, practical.

And so it goes.

After a week of work, I was home with the kids one recent Saturday while my husband attended an (exceedingly rare) annual event with friends.

I didn’t begrudge him the time (hey, we all need the chance to be someone other than “Mommy” or “Daddy” once in a while), but it wasn’t the most stress-free day for the ones left behind.

The boys missed Daddy (whom they don’t see nearly as much as any of us would like during the week), were bouncing off the walls due to the cool-and-rainy weather and turned into Mommy-magnets whenever I tried to get anything non-kid-related done.

And then dinnertime rolled around, and I realized there was a desperate need for groceries. Great.

Wrestling the kids into their thoroughly unwanted jackets, frazzled and grumpy, I tried to act cheerful and asked Jim what he wanted for dinner.

My 4-year-old tipped his head to the side, considered for a moment and then offered me that million-dollar smile of his.

“Cupcakes!”

“What?” Mommy wasn’t real quick on the uptake that day.

“Cupcakes! Please?”

I’m not proud of what happened next. I didn’t even laugh. I don’t think I even smiled.

As best I remember, I snapped something like, “You can’t have cupcakes for dinner,” strapped him into his carseat and closed the door.

And the smile ran away from his face like it’d never been there.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, I looked into the rearview mirror and felt like the worst mom ever. So cupcakes for dinner aren’t the best idea. He’s 4. He doesn’t know that.

But it was too late to take the words ... and more importantly, the tone ... back.

We got through the grocery store OK, went home and had dinner (grilled cheese and veggies). The boys played a while, watched their beloved Elmo, joyously greeted their returning father and finally went to sleep.

The next day, I waited until the baby was down for a nap, then got down on my knees besides a little boy who was playing idly with a toy car, looking bored and casting frequent glances out the window at the rainy day.

“Hey, Jim?”

The glance I got said, “Uh oh, Mommy’s going to make me pick up my room ... ”

“Want to make cupcakes?”

And the sun came out.

The night before, still smarting from the sadness in his eyes, I’d picked up a cake mix — and canned frosting, which normally never crosses the threshold to my kitchen. It was the kind with sprinkles. This, I was sure, would be a hit.

I was right.

We dragged a chair into the kitchen and got out the mixer. Jim helped me measure, helped me crack the eggs and helped me guide the mixer. He gave them a few more stirs for good measure, I filled the cupcake tins and we popped them in the oven.

And we waited. That was the hard part. Delayed gratification is a tough concept when you’re 4 and they are cupcakes in the oven.

After the requisite 18 minutes, the hard part was done. We let them cool, then got out the butter knives and canned frosting ... and sprinkles (my kitchen may never be the same; I’m still finding bits of brightly colored sugar in odd places).

And then we sat down and each consumed a cupcake. Watching my son, his face covered in chocolate, happily licking sprinkles from his fingers, I felt like I’d gotten a little bit of the dream back.

Cupcakes for dinner aren’t practical. They’re frivolous and messy and not very nutritious.

But I have a lifetime to be practical — and 363 other dinners a year to eat healthy. And the silly little things — like cupcakes for dinner — can only make a child this happy for a limited time.

I’m going to try to remember that.

Jill Keppeler is a page designer for the Tonawanda News. She can be reached at jill.keppeler@tonawanda-news.com.