I have been known to make notoriously ugly birthday cakes. They are made with love and they usually taste okay, but that’s as far as I can stretch it.

There was the time I made my husband, what has been dubbed, the diarrhea cake. Not because of the texture, but rather the icing I so lovingly concocted with food coloring. Did you know that blue and green make brown?

And, then there’s this. Quite possibly the most hideous cake ever. What you can’t see is my son’s name, which I removed with Microsoft Paint (widely known as Photoshop for poor people). All you need to know is that the “M” in his name looked remarkably like an “N”.

What you can see? The crooked “2” in every corner, the thick letters in “Happy”, which ends in a whacked out “y”. Oh, and even at two…he knew he was in for years of this, which would explain his reaction.

But yesterday, I was so proud of myself. My father-in-law came to visit and I made a cake from scratch! From scratch, I said! Even the icing was homemade. My letters were well-scripted and I added some red sprinkles to match. This is a masterpiece in my house.

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Each day in the second grade class in which I work, the teacher goes around the room and asks the students if there is anything they are concerned about. The hands quickly shoot up and they begin talking about their problems.

Here is an example of some of the things they’ve mentioned lately:

“My arm is scratched, because I was playing basketball with my sister and ran into a brick wall.”

“My puppy is sick.”

“We’re moving to a new house.”

“I had a hard time waking up this morning.”

“My brother has a swim-meet this weekend and I hope he does well.”

Then the teacher calls on me and here are some of the things I have said (okay, wanted to say…I don’t want to traumatize anyone) in the last couple of weeks:

“Out of my sister’s four best friends, three of them have been diagnosed with breast cancer. The third one just got the news.”

“My mom is being sued for money which is rightfully hers and was left for her in the will of a man with sound mind, who she nursed through his sickness and death for 12 years. Who’s suing? The daughter who never came to visit him.”

“I am in a continuing battle with health insurance and our county over medications and therapy that my son needs, but no one seems to want to pay for.”

“My husband is working 16 hour days to support us and we never see him anymore.”

“I haven’t slept well in over 10 years.”

And what I’ve learned from this little exercise in reflection and sharing, is that I really wish I was seven again.

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Last night, my 10 year old daughter had her First Reconciliation (Confession). As archaic as some people believe this Sacrament to be, I like the idea that my kid is acknowledging she has done things which are wrong, like lying and gossiping and spitting out perfectly good food when her mother told her to eat it and then the dog came along and ate it off the floor, so not only did she not eat her lunch but the dog had apple-scented gas all afternoon…hypothetically.

I also think it’s a good thing that she saw me in line for confession right there with her. She needs to know that even her parents are flawed and that we are always striving to improve. Some parents were in with the priest for so long that they started turning out the lights (*cough* my husband *cough*).

Because there were roughly 30 kids and quite a few parents waiting for an available priest, we were there for a long time. My six year old son wholeheartedly appreciated this captive audience, and amused us with the following:

*When I pointed to a picture of the Pope and said, “He’s the highest priest in the Catholic Church”.

My son replied, “Really? So he’s very tall?”

*After I told him why we were there he said, “When I have my First Confession, I’ll say I’m sorry for this.” Then he hit me.

*When his sister left the confessional and was coming back to her seat he yelled, “What did you tell him?”

*While waiting on the playground for my husband to finish up in the church, the kids started playing hide and seek. When my son couldn’t find his sister he announced, “Mom! I can’t find her. I think she’s hiding in heaven!”

When next year’s class has their First Reconciliation I’m bringing him with me again…and this time I’m going to charge admission.

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On Saturday night, our family attended a dinner party in honor of our niece’s college graduation. It was an elegant little affair, complete with great conversation, an around the world beer tour and some delicious food.

The home of our hosts was amazingly decorated and resembled an English manor. It was a sprawling abode, sitting on a golf course and even had a pond out back with swans swimming about. Thank goodness I took my fake Coach handbag and wore my best Target jacket!

After a few Coronas, Amstel Lights and Red Stripes I still managed to be on my best behavior. But, on the way home I decided to let my real riff-raff self come out and said, “That sure was a nice party. Their house was unbelievable and the food was da’ bomb diggity.”

Then my son, who was all pumped up on mini-cheesecake and juice boxes, piped up from the back seat and said, “Nuh-uh! The food was really good!”

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