I got this bug up my butt on the way home this afternoon that I wanted a birthday cake. I tried just coming home and ignoring it, but I realized I was out of cereal and so, if I was going to be at the store anyway… well, might as well get the fixings for a cake.
And so I did.
And I found myself overcome with homesickness for my mom, as I was watching the batter spin through the beaters. It made me happy to make the cake, but I kept tearing up anyway. It felt like a good gift to myself in a way that’s hard for me to articulate, just the right amount of nostalgia and longing.
And I’ll get to have cake for breakfast on my birthday, which is exactly how it should be.