I hate cake, not just any cake, but birthday cake. Maybe I should clarify… I hate birthday cake for my birthday. Baking and making a cake is a labor of love. When my children were young, at least a week before their birthday’s we talked cake. I wanted to know exactly what cake they would like to have for their birthday. Sometimes it was a race car cake, a ninja turtle cake, a Baskin Robbins ice cream cake, or a cake I would make from scratch. Whatever cake my children wanted for their birthday I made sure they got it.
When I grew up there was never a cake, at least not for my birthday. My brother’s always had a cake and they were able to choose whatever their little hearts desired in a cake. Their wishes always came true and they would have the perfect birthday cake. With the candles and the traditional birthday song and the….. make a wish when you blow the candles out !! Cheers, clapping, hugs, kisses..blah blah blah.
Usually it was a cake made from scratch from the woman that birthed us. Sometimes German chocolate , occasionally a character cake such as winnie the pooh. I remember an angel food cake with fresh strawberries picked from the garden for my youngest brother. Whatever the cake may be it was special and I resented it!
I now get it, as you have read in my blog, my mother hated me. She hated August 2nd with a passion, that was the day she birthed me. August 2nd was the worst day of her life. August 2nd was a reminder of all that was evil, all that destroyed her. August 2nd was the day she would have to start taking care of the child of the man that she LIED about to so many people that had raped her. Ya’ know the one she married.. Yep that guy, my father.. I would for the rest of her life be a constant reminder of what she felt she had lost, because of me. The scholarship to college, her standing in the community.. In the 60’s the last thing a young woman wanted was to be carrying a baby around at age 18. The abortion she attempted with a coat hanger after only a few months prego didn’t work, nope… I joined her pathetic life that day on August 2nd and she hated me from the moment I arrived.
So each year as a child when August approached, the anger, the hostility escalated in my home. The reminder of my birth haunted my mother. I felt it…. I lived it, I survived it. I never asked for a cake… I knew the answer.. I did not deserve a cake, I was a bad child. Only good children were able to receive a birthday cake.
I always had gifts, usually unwrapped. August was the month prior to school starting. So my gifts consisted of school clothes. Relatives usually gave me money and told me to buy something special……. Really ???? Like my mother was going to take me to a store to purchase something special ??? Never! That money went into the bank in Yorkville that later when I moved to my fathers, my mother withdrew all that money I saved and I never saw a dime of it… that was special… Years of saving birthday and Christmas money, gone.
Back to cake… All I ever wanted was a cake, a birthday song, happy faces, and a wish. My wish would of been, with my eyes squinted ever so tightly, to have a mother that loved me, that hugged me, comforted me, and encouraged me.
And now all that know me… know why I don’t want cake and want August 2nd to just.. just .. go away.