Pain in Her Bundt

When I was eight years old, I decided that mi madre needed to do things differently. I would tell her,

"When I'm a mom, I'll let my kids eat Lucky Charms. I'll buy a year supply of sugary cereals; we'll never run out of Fruit Loops. Never. Cheerios will be like saying a dirty word."

"When I'm a mom, I'll buy Wonder bread. My kids will never have to gum through whole grain anything. I'll only buy white, refined, and pure--the way bread was born to be bought."

"When I'm a mom, I'll never bake a bundt cake. Kids don't like walnuts coated in cinnamon and sugar, baked into a moist yellow cake mix, topped with powdered sugar. Bundt cakes are for old ladies at tea parties. Kids like store bought Barbie cakes, the kind with a real doll wearing an edible skirt."

My comments collected and returned to haunt me like a self-inflicted curse. My kids have cavities. Always. They can't stand whole grain bread, and they can never get enough fiber in their diets. We have to give them shots of Metamucil before bed. "Who's ready for a fiber party?" mi Amor always calls out each night.

Then, a while ago, my brother made a bundt cake for a family gathering and my kids said,

"Can you bake a cake like Uncle Boosh?"

"I can't. Bundt cakes have rat poison in them."

"That cake was the best cake ever, especially the nuts. Uncle Boosh would never poison us, right, Mom?"

So, last night we made a bundt cake. And while my homegurl and I gathered the ingredients, we talked and talked. Not once did she say, "When I'm a mom..." And I was grateful for her graciousness; I wished I were more like her. Then my thoughts turned to mi madre and how wonderful she was to me, so patient and kind. I quietly thanked Heavenly Father for giving her the strength to not slap me into next week. I was such a pain in her bundt. She'd never admit it, though.