Well, we didn't get to make the cupcakes. I DID dutifully dye that frosting a bright tree-frog green while all the nappin' was goin' on, but then the nappin' kept goin' on and goin' on until the potential cupcake-baking time started encroaching on urgent dinner-making time and I made the executive decision to table our bakefest until the weekend. I naively figured when Bean finally awoke, I'd tell her quickly and honestly about the plan change and fix her up with some easy tasks she could do to help me get dinner ready.
Ready ... Set ... Divert Meltdown! Simple, right?
OHMYGRANNY. It was about as simple as kissing the backs of my own knees, people! There was crying. And gnashing of teeth, pulling of hair, wailing, snorting, snot-flinging, tear-staining and more. Followed by a full 45 minutes of forlorn hiccuping combined with perfectly (manipulatively) spaced muffled, broken sob-lets.
Eventually Daddy came in and with him came a rainbow of hope wrapped around the assurance we WOULD MAKE THE CUPCAKES on Saturday, and all was well except we had zero tissues left in the house thanks to the dramatic woe-is-me mopping up of all those tears.
And then it hit. The flu. Or whatever it was. I'd say it was definitely the flu except I don't think I had much of a fever. I can't be sure about the fever because my last treasured plain old (hideously unsafe yadda yadda) glass and mercury thermometer bit the dust a few months ago and so now the only way to check temperatures around here is with Bean's The Other End Thermometer and well? Yeah, um...NO.
So we still haven't made the shamrock cakes.
But maybe now I can skip the rolling up of the 36 little dadburn balls of foil and just make plain old round cupcakes, frost 'em up with my brilliantly-green goo, slap some jelly beans or Peeps™ on top and call 'em Easter cupcakes.
But as God is my witness, people, I ain't breathin' a WORD of this scheme to Madame D. Smearyfingers Lickabowl until we've both got our aprons tied and our whisks in hand.