As I was bemoaning in my head the fact that I was frosting Olaf cupcakes at 11 o’clock last night, and reminding myself to tell Miles when he’s 25 or so that he better choose a mighty fine nursing home for me, several other things crossed my mind. Here’s the thread of thoughts:

“Arghghghgh, these stupid Olaf cupcakes A) don’t look anything like the Pinterest picture – and therefore don’t look anything like Olaf, and B) are taking WAY longer than anticipated.”

“Miles better see to it that I am in the World’s Finest Nursing Facility when I’m old and senile. He owes me one.”

“Remember that one time Mom and I made Halloween cookies when I was in college? And we made the icing from scratch? And I ate so much I came this close to throwing up? Yeah. That time.”

“Remember that other one time when Mom and I made Diego cupcakes for Allie? OK so fine Mom made them because I had post-partum depression from Miles, who looked so unbelievably handsome sitting in his bouncy seat while Mom and I squirted melted chocolate in the shape of Diego’s hair onto wax paper?”

“Oh. My. God. Three years ago today, I had my boobs cut off. Dear God, thank you for American Cancer Society’s tagline or mission or whatever to celebrate more birthdays.”

“These look like Olaf’s evil cousin, Johann, who had the misfortune of being delivered vaginally, forcibly with forceps, vacuums, pliers and maybe an allen wrench that came packaged with the instructions to IKEA’s Svornijen shelving unit.”

“Why can’t I decorate cupcakes like all the good mommies on Pinterest?”

“I’ve never been so happy in my life. I love sucking at making Olaf cupcakes.”