Cupcake Massacre

“What does a horse say, Pootle?” I asked the Very Small Boy one afternoon last week as we browsed through his animal picture book.
“Beep beep!” he replied enthusiastically.

I was attempting to distract him while the Small Girl decorated a cake. A plain sponge, a spatula, a tin of chocolate frosting and assorted pots of sprinkles, and half an hour later, we had a monstrous, toppling mound of chocolatey goo for her to take to Playschool the following morning to share with her friends.

“Mum, am I four yet?” She asked me, loading a spatula-full of chocolate frosting into her mouth and then wiping her sleeve across her face.
“No darling, you’ll be four tomorrow –when you wake in the morning, then you’ll be four and after Playschool, all your friends will be coming over for your party!”
“Yaay!” she cried, leaping up and down, and I beamed at her infectious enthusiasm, despite my growing dread at the prospect of having my lovely house taken over by hordes of screaming preschoolers.

The party the following day was incredibly hard work; besides baking several types of cupcake, I had undertaken to create a “Finding Nemo” cake, as well as providing sandwiches and snacks and party bags. And then there were balloons to blow up, presents to wrap and party games to plan. And that was before the children arrived: screeching and running and throwing and shouting and trampling bits of sticky cake into the floor. But of course in the end, all that mattered was that the Small Girl had a fabulous time with all her friends, dashing happily about in the sunshine and stuffing themselves silly with sweet treats.

Some time later, after all her guests had left and the Small Girl sat happily in the kitchen playing with her presents, DH was sweeping bits of wrapping paper and used paper plates into the recycle bin as I chiselled cupcake remnants from the kitchen floor.

“That was hard work!” he remarked.
“Yes well… at least we only have to do it once a year!” I replied.

Then we both turned with slow and dawning horror in the direction of the Very Small Boy who, oblivious, was standing by the patio door and staring out to the garden where he’d seen a neighbourhood cat.

“Neigh!” he cried, pointing to the cat. And, nodding in quiet agreement with himself, he continued to watch until it leapt delicately over the fence and disappeared out of sight.