Dreams in a cup October 16, 2011

I like lemon bakes. Light citrousy batter, like golden sunshine, only spongy.

So when dearest May got me The Hummingbird Bakery’s recipe book gift set (complete with sweet pink and chirpy birds cupcake cups and ducky confetti sprinkles!) with an easy lemony recipe, I did a little jiggly dance, and got down to work on those sweeties the following day.

That morning, I sat a yellow block of butter on the table, watched it blur at the edges as it melted under the heat. I bake really slowly, if you must know. That process must be savoured and measured (pun not intended), it can’t be done in a jiffy, really. The kitchen was warm, but just nicely so, a good sign that the oven was prepping up nicely for the cuppies. My hands all batter-filled (is it just me, but I love tasting the batter!), I wiped off the perspiration with the knob of my wrist. And there was this glee in just knowing, my cupcakes would soon be ready.

I go for the prettiest cakes on display at the stores, but when it comes to my own bakes and feeding my folks and friends, I hate the lavish and saccharine sweet fondant and over-the-top decor. I like mine a little burnt at the edges, a little mis-shapened. To me, they are perfect only when they are imperfect. It’s what makes them home-baked, no? I’m no baker, never will be, so this perfect imperfection, is good enough for me.

And they turned out sweet and light, good enough for Missy. She had two, asked for more, and in her playroom, requested for me to teach her how to bake. “I like your cupcakes, Mommy. Can you teach me?” (Yes, she talks like that sometimes. So proper, it’s almost Enid-Blyton-ish.)

And so I tried to repeat the hummingbird magic for her birthday celebration, this time in smaller portions, in yellow polka-dotted cups, and unfortunately and rarely, in a hurry. So they weren’t as good as they were in my first attempt, but the folks were kind enough to eat their share and had seconds. Raeann was thrilled to blow out the candles and eat her cupcake with some picks I saved for her special day. She held out a forkful for me, all lemon and love. More love than lemon.

So every birthday, I bake her cake/cupcakes,  for at least one celebration. And I like this tradition. I hope she, too, always will.

Happy Giving-Birth-Day October 10, 2011

The sweet man surprised me with a giving-birth present, all wrapped up. Missy was thrilled, “Daddy has a present for you, Mommy.” I immediately corrected her, “No, it’s for YOU.” Then I turned to the huddy, “My goodness, you bought her another present?” (He had got her a huge Lego set a month earlier.)

Happy giving-birth-day to mommy, he said.

I couldn’t say anything for a while.

I’m all Glee-ed out.

I’m so loved. I am.

With love, from Mommy October 10, 2011

Dear Raeann,

It’s been so long since Mommy last wrote to you. I haven’t forgotten about writing, in case you are wondering. It’s just that so much is happening – there’s always your hand to hold, your songs to sing, your warmth to embrace, your playdates to attend, it’s getting harder to sit down proper to compose this. But sit down I will, write I will, short as it may be.

You turn three today. Three years ago, you were pink, a big mush of fragile softness. Now you are caramel-coloured, light flushes seeping through your cheeks. Your calves are dotted with mozzie bites from Chiang Mai, testament to your sweetness, I always say. Your hair, still those light brown waves, I’m envious as always. And that voice – no longer soft and girly, but loud, sharp and crisp clear. Those cheeks are still munch-worthy, a distinct trait you inherited from me (I’m not proud of my cheeks, just yours). You are beautiful, to me, to your daddy, to those who love you truly.

Turning three has made you a wonderful helper. The playroom is kept tidy, wooden food toys in place, cupcakes in their trays. Even the Lego pieces are no longer hazardously placed on the mat for all to step on. You choose little pressies to give to your friends (“So-and-so likes this, I want to buy for him”). You keep the laundry, peg on your own clothes, get the jammies for Daddy, wash your own shoes, shower and even dry and clothe yourself. Things I certainly did not do when I was three.

You correct gramps when they speak bad English. You remind us of tasks we haven’t done, promises we haven’t kept (“You said you would give me a marshmallow after I wear my shoes. Remember, Mommy?”). You comfort us when we have tiffs. You tell me, ever so gently, “Try not to be afraid of cats, Mommy. Cats are nice. But they don’t like to smile.”

You were a trooper in our first trip overseas. In a week, your routines were rocked upside down, inside out. But you adapted ever so readily, even willing yourself to take supper with us at 2.30 am SG time. Nary a whine, always a smile. You rock. You do.

I try not to be amazed at every little thing, but the truth is, I really am. Sometimes, I forget you are only three. Yes, you are three, but only just three.

I had the best three years of my life, with you. The moments are amplified, every day a surprise. How is this possible, I don’t know, but this love, it aches. In the most intense, best way possible. Mommy’s tearing as I’m writing – I’m so blessed to have you, baby. May the years ahead bring you more confetti moments, more lessons, more love. Be a blessing to others, as you have been to me. Happy birthday, my dear dear missy. We love love love love love you. Love you so.

Love,

Mommy