My blood is about to steam out of my ears. I am beyond all control now. I bite my lip in effort to try not to say anything I will regret. I mean, of course, they don’t know any better. Maybe I lead them astray when my silence is construed to acceptance instead. But really, would it kill them to remember just once.
I give my kids everything, including the last pieces of garlic bread, or sharing my spaghetti from my bowl. I even take the heel of toast as no one else likes them. I do what every mother does-give everything to my household. Through lost sleep years and never going to the bathroom alone, I do it. I do it because I know one day it will change. They will not need me as much.
I clutch my fork in the last straw of self-control and deeply breathe. I look around at the dirty dishes strewn through the top of the table. Pieces of wrapping paper at our feet. I feel like I am about to cry. I never ask for much. I am ready to make my demand clear. I see the glint in my five-year-olds eyes looking at dessert. When my dear husband reaches the cake to give her the last slice, I can’t take it.
“It’s my birthday cake and I will have the last slice!” I bellow. Silence surrounds the table. Their stunned looks almost make me regret saying anything. Almost.
“Of course, honey.” My smart husband says as he slides the last slice onto my plate.
I take the first sweet bite and am glad with my decision. Sometimes Moms need to have their cake and eat it too, if only one day a year.