Cake
I want to tell you how awesome my mom is.
You know I have lead-footed psychos upstairs who are either kung-fu fighting or dancing the jungle boogie all day, every day, any time of day.
It’s easy to hate them, as you can tell. I gave up on my “maybe they are just young parents who fight a lot and don’t mean to destroy the peace” mantra about two weeks into my current five-month stay.
In any event, it’s Mom’s birthday weekend, and I got us a cake. We were enjoying it immensely when we heard the Baby Who Cries Like Daddy stomping around in the hallway.
Mom’s psychic senses kicked in. And she says, “Those kids have never had a piece of cake in their miserable little lives.”
I said really. And she said yes. None. Nothing special. Nothing fun or celebratory.
She said think about what life must be like to be surrounded by fighting and body-slamming and constant chaos. No wonder she cries all the time. She feels unsafe, unsure and unloved.
That doesn’t give us any sympathy for the shitheads she calls parents who can’t control themselves, let alone the kids. But to go through your miserable little life with no cake?
Now THAT is tragic, and probably a fine reason to call DCF and have them put in a house with cake.
Not our house. It already sounds like they are in there. And no, mom isn’t sharing her cake. But isn’t it nice that she can look past the absolute shitshow our apartment is to feel empathy for people who deserve it least?