At one point, I was a child. Not only do I remember it, there is photographic evidence. I was small and creative and full of life. I made mud pies and fairy houses, then graduated to elaborately painted watercolor pictures and jewelry. Oh, the jewelry I created for anyone and everyone! I still wear some of it today.
And yet, at this point in my life, as a working mother of two, the thought of crafting makes me panicky. When I walk into Michael’s, I start to twitch and feel agitated — that’s Michael’s the craft store, not the liquor store. It has the exact opposite effect on me.
It starts with the worry over the coupon. Because there is always a coupon. And sometimes, there are two coupons and I have to figure out which one is a better deal. This means I will have to do on-the-spot math, which I find stressful.
And then, as a mother of a brilliant girl, I get mad that math is stressful. It reminds me of that God-awful Barbie that they created a few years back that wore that ridiculous, stupid grin and said, “Math is hard,” in her breezy and stereotypical, bleach-blonde, bubbly voice. I was completely offended by this atrocious doll and it made me hate Barbie more than I already did. So I certainly don’t want to agree with this vapid, made-up creature.
Do you see how upsetting all of this is? And I haven’t even made it out of the car yet.
When I step inside, I like to have a plan. What do I need? Where is it located? How long is the line? These are all major considerations because I try to keep my time inside at a minimum. And once I’ve made it through the not-at-all fun task of choosing my items, I don’t enjoy waiting for the typical 20 minutes to pay for them. It’s probably because of all the people trying to figure out which freaking coupon to use.
The irony here is that my daughter is a Leo. They are brilliant and creative, artistic and dramatic. She is filled with grandiose ideas that have no basis in reality. For her birthday this past week, she wanted to decorate plain white sneakers with her guests, engage them in a lengthy and elaborate scavenger hunt, play her own version of charades, with props, and still eat dinner, swim and have cake.
Though I hate to bring her down, I was clear, “Sweetie, you know that you were not born to the crafty mom. I’m sorry for all the emotional damage that has caused you, but crafts bring on some pretty serious anxiety for me. You’ll have to choose one thing.”
“Can there be glitter?”
(Visible shudder)
“Only if it’s contained inside a bottle of glue. And you work outside. And everyone has to wash up at the hose before they come in. Actually, maybe everyone should just stay outside.”
I asked her to choose one craft and headed off to Michael’s, alone. Taking my little lion with me to this land of beads and baubles is tantamount to asking Sybil to name her favorite color. Before we make it through the first aisle, she has changed her mind 37 times and mentally spent $482. I am already exhausted and it’s only been two-and-a-half minutes.
No, this is an adventure best lived solo. I head to the plain white sneakers which, it turns out, do not come in children’s sizes. OK. No need to panic. I will text her a few other plausible options. As I stroll through the aisles, sizing up our options, the walls of (literal) blank canvases, contrasted with the overwhelming colors and sizes of everything start to blur into a bad version of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.
I’m furiously texting the child her choices, accompanied by photos. The selections are becoming overwhelming and she’s not responding. I try a different tactic. A cell phone is a new item for her, but the boy doesn’t allow his to be more than 6 inches away from himself at anytime.
Me: tell your sister to check her phone.
I see that he has read it, but no response. I would’ve started sweating, but it’s way too cold in there for that to happen.
Me: Well?
Him: Told.
It was a verbose exchange.
I wait a few more minutes and still nothing. I have sent her 10 text messages. I start to load my cart with what I think will work. Then I doubt myself and put it all back. This happens two more times.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in my car, empty-handed and filled with irrational rage: at adult-sized sneakers, at crafts, at the lack of consistency in store inventory, at the Halloween decorations already proffered — reminding me of yet another holiday for which crafty people create crafts — and even at my daughter, for not wanting to just eat pizza and swim. I mean, doesn’t that sound like a good time?
I blasted Metallica the whole ride home so I could work out my anger before I arrived. Lars Ulrich helped me to realize that I had to calm down. He pointed out that she’s just a little girl with pie-in-the-sky dreams of creating endless tchotchke that no one really wants (or, he just bashed the hell out of his drums. Either way, he was a huge help). And as her mom, it’s my job to indulge her. Well, a little bit.
The party runs for two hours. I have time frames for each (of my) events. We start with swimming. Eating commences at 4:40. At 5:00, we decorate t-shirts (who decorates sneakers? It’s not really rational). Cake is at 5:30 and by 6 p.m., we are hugging our friends and saying farewell. This is how you run a birthday and keep Mommy sane, too. Happy birthday, Peanut.
I may not be crafty, but no one’s ever gone hungry at my house. Birthday celebrations always call for the celebrants favorite dessert. When they ask for homemade ice cream cake, my heart soars with joy. Because when it’s August and I have to figure out how to convince nine girls and their t-shirt-making mess that the backyard is way better than the air-conditioned dining room, I don’t need to throw baking into the equation. And ice cream cakes demand to be made before, freeing up even more crazy-day-of-the-party time to hide the glitter and blame it on the dog.
Ice cream cake
1 springform pan
2 to 3 half gallons of ice cream (depending on the size of your pan and preferably of different flavors)
1-2 cups of crushed cookies (we like chocolate snaps and/or sugar cookies but any crunchy cookie will work)
1 jar of caramel/fudge/peanut butter syrup (Trader Joe’s makes one without the junk and now, so does Smuckers. I’ve also made my own, but time doesn’t always allow for that)
Whipped cream (optional)
Let the ice cream sit on the counter until it is soupy. Prepare the springform and pour the first flavor into the pan (I sit it on a cookie sheet, just in case it leaks). Smooth it out with a rubber spatula. Put in a layer of crushed cookies and drizzle the syrup over the top. Then pour another flavor of ice cream and smooth it out. At this point, you can either cover it with wax or parchment paper, then plastic wrap or aluminum foil. Or, if there’s still room in the pan, you can make another layer. Put it in the freezer (a chest freezer works best) for at least 24 hours, but the longer, the better. I like 48 hours. Before serving, remove the springform and drizzle the top with more syrup. You can also cover it with whip cream and then drizzle with syrup. It depends on your desired level of deliciousness.
It’s funny, this recipe is so super easy, but people love it so much, they think you’re a culinary goddess/god when you serve it. Accept the praise. If you’ve done war with glitter, you deserve it.
Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street in Riverhead.
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