I know kids... Let's bake some cakes! Now, go stand over there and watch. DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!!
I hate baking with my kids. There, I've said it, that's a load off my mind now. Not least because I fear for my own calorie consumption when I finish off the remaining 19 of the two dozen cupcakes we argued over, but mostly because my inner control-freak gets unleashed. "Don't touch that! Don't make a mess! No you can't crack an egg... you know what happened last time! Get your fingers out of the butter!". My heart-rate increases, sweat pours from my forehead and my stomach twists in knots as I contemplate scrubbing the icing sugar off the floor and how I will ever clean it from under the washing machine?!
I have a reasonably ample bosom and derrière that suggest I should be the real heart-of-the-home home-maker... But I'm not. My hatred of cleaning out-trumps any feelings for realising the ideals thrown at us from every image of domestic bliss to which we're subjected. Just pass me the surface wipes, please, and all will be well.
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