It was a hideous cake.
Worse than that, it was 11 p.m. the night before the party, and I had no time, no energy, and no ingredients to make a replacement.
My daughter was turning one, and I had taken on the idea of making a doll cake to go with the homemade mac’n’cheese and fried chicken dinner for 15 people. No big deal, right? Except frosting colors turned, icing dripped, and the proportions were almost as ghastly as the sickening skin tone I had concocted.
My daughter could have cared less. I wept.
See, perfectionism and I go way back. We have a long, sordid history of scrapped plans and crumpled papers, and plenty of shared boxes of Kleenex over test scores and I’m-not-good-enough moments.
It’s an abusive relationship.