The Domestic
A night of torment at the hands of your womb-fruit can only be remedied by cake, says Sophie White, so these classic cupcakes will soothe your soul
Classic cupcakes
E“Contemplating what can only be described as a Vompocalypse in the cot, I actually had the thought, ‘Better to just incinerate it’”
very so often, a parenting moment comes along that is so sweet and joy-filled, you momentarily forget every dark thought you’ve ever had about running away from your spawn and starting a new life south of the Equator.
These are the times that you forgive all the hours spent stepping on Lego and wiping sick from your shoulder. They are the times that you look upon your womb-fruit with a love that is pure, profound and life-affirming.
This is not one of those times. Of course, it’s not — have you ever read this column? I think I may’ve said something positive about womb-fruit once, back in 2013, when I was on tablet morphine and everything seemed totally graaaaaaaaand.
This story perfectly illustrates a pet theory I’ve been working on, which I call the Parental Pile On. PPOs are easily identified. Ever find yourself relating a parental mishap to a friend, and at each of their stricken gasps of “Oh no”, you say, “But wait; it gets worse”? That, my friend, is a Parental Pile On. The shitemare moments that are followed by a stream of increasingly more horrific developments, compounding the misery, until you are either crying or eating your feelings (see right).
My most recent PPO, in typical PPO fashion, couldn’t have come at a worse time. It was the week before our summer holiday, and my co-pilot, Himself, was off on some ill-advised mid-week bender. I had about four different deadlines colliding the very next day, so naturally Baby II seized this opportunity to get spectacularly, violently ill.
In the aftermath, so exhausted was I from trying to clean Baby II — just picture wrestling with a slippery, angry, 700lb alligator — that I couldn’t face even attempting to clean the cot. Contemplating what can only be described as a Vompocalypse in the cot, I actually had the thought, “Better to just incinerate it”, and, with great reluctance, I brought Baby II up to my bed.
I used to love sleeping with him, but since he has hit gargatuan proportions, it’s just not feasible — just picture trying to cuddle an angry, thrashing, 700lb alligator.
The night that followed was spirit-breaking in the truest sense. At one point, I awoke to find Baby II had draped all 700lbs of himself across my face, and was contentedly snoring. When I attempted to move him, he became extremely irate and stuffed his fist into my mouth.
As dawn broke and I began to drift off again, he woke me up by sneezing directly into my ear, and then sat back, laughing manically in the darkness.
A night like that leaves a hole in your soul. This hole can only be filled with cake. I recommend these classic cupcakes to restore faith in this world.