A lot of my friends on social media bake. I see instagrams of them lovingly making some rainbow cake. Or you know those dead fancy ones where you cut into it and sweets pour out like something from Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. I read the odd tweet stating "Up at 11pm and still making my sons Paw Patrol cake!" and I think "oh that's love that is, that's real commitment". I am yet to tweet "Went to Asda at 9:15am and left at 9:20am with a Shopkins cake and a Crunchie for me". It doesn't really have the same effect does it. Doesn't really show love. Shows a bit of a 'must try harder' element to parenting.
Part of the problem is that if I put my mind to baking a cake I could. I mean it would probably be bloody awful but I could spend five hours making a creation if I really wanted to. But (whispers) I just don't want to. Is that bad? My husband doesn't want to either but no one expects him to produce a five tiered Paw Patrol masterpiece. My friends who produce cakes like this are heroes. I gasp with everyone else. And marvel at how much of a good Mum they are. But that doesn't make me a bad Mum. It just makes me a person who doesn't like baking.
I am REALLY good at other things. Homework projects? BOOM I. Am. On. It. I am really, really good fun. My house is generally tidy and not going to lie I give amazing cuddles. I am just sh*t at baking. And crafts. When my children are older I hope these weird outdated stereotypes have moved on. I hope my son is in charge of birthday parties. I hope my daughter swans into the nearest Sainsburys and picks up a Barbie cake for her child with NO sh*ts given. Until then. At least four times a year I will feel a bit of a crap Mother standing in the shopping aisle of Asda, a birthday cake in one hand and a Crunchie to eat away my guilt in the other.