Saturday was Ike's eighth birthday.
Sunday marked one year since my suicide attempt.
So this weekend was...a lot.
And I have a lot of thoughts and reflections and bits and drips of a post about the day -- and that day -- but I'm not really feeling ready to untangle that particular mental snarl. At least not quite yet.
Saturday was my baby's eighth birthday.
He wanted a super-chocolaty chocolate layer cake with vanilla icing and blue letters. And he wanted me to make it for him.
I made the layers a bit too thick so the bottom one got a little crushed and lopsided under the weight, the icing turned out more glaze-like than I was expecting and kept melting off in the heat, and given that I already have the handwriting of a serial killer, piping letters on cakes never goes very well for me.
But I was there. I was there and I made him a cake.