The Kindergarten Cupcake Caper

I wrote recently about Charlotte’s first day of school.  What I didn’t write was how she went on her first day and the aftermath throughout the week of that experience.  First of all, she knew no one.  The preschool she went to is a feeder for Evatt Primary and that’s not where she wound up attending.  Secondly, Charlotte’s methods of making friends are pretty direct and, for any kid that’s remotely shy, shockingly confrontational – she just marches up and says “My name’s Charlotte, we should be friends!”

Dejected from the first day or two of having kids back slowly away while maintaining eye contact (presumably so she wouldn’t suddenly charge and maul them) before darting away, she was bemoaning the fact that she couldn’t seem to do anything right.  And that’s when the great Valentine’s Day Cupcake Plan came into being. 

Charlotte is mad keen on baking cupcakes.  By a curious twist of fate, most kids seem to love cupcakes.  Ergo, if we make them cupcakes, they will come.  More importantly, they might be friends.  Great planning went into the cupcake enterprise.  Daddy and Charlotte went on a mission to locate heart lollies, rainbow sprinkles and the “really cool silver balls that you can eat”.  Mama managed to rouse up enough Tupperware to contain them and from there we commenced our baking.

Being responsible types Charles scoped in advance how many kids there were in the class and I quizzed the teacher on allergies.  She didn’t think there were any but promised to check and I, in turn, promised to make vegan cupcakes which I figured would cover most allergies.  Valentines Day came and I found myself present as the cupcakes were distributed.  The teacher confirmed there was one kid allergic to egg in the class and that was it.  We were good to go. 

So as the kiddies clustered around to get their lovingly decorated bribe treat, the parents began swarming in.  Enter the mother of the allergic to eggs kid.  She immediately freezes at the sight of her son with a half-eaten cupcake rapidly being polished off and begins the panic-fest in an urgent tone that demands the attention of everyone in a five-metre radius.

“Oh no, no, no!”  she exclaims, “Did you remember to ask about egg?  You know you’re allergic to egg!  You should have asked!  You can’t eat that!”

Now all of these exclamations and questions are thrown in the direction of the tiny blonde-headed boy who has now paused halfway through the trough to contemplate what his mother is screeching about.  Obviously he did not consider his allergy to eggs – he’s five and someone presented him with a bright blue cupcake replete with a lolly and silver balls of awesome for decoration.  That’s probably the last thing he remembers.  Doubtless by now he’s forgotten that he’s meant to be breathing (this certainly explains why it appears that he’s trying to physically inhale his tasty treat of anaphylactic doom.)

Obviously Mum’s comments and questions are not at all aimed at her son – they’re a passive aggressive reprimand for me.  I can tell from the way she angles her body towards me and how her reproachful eyes dart in my direction that she’s actually trying to vent her fury on me for daring to compromise her delicate son’s health with noxious, forbidden tasties.  Clearly I should have been more careful and I should have asked about allergies.  She finishes up by popping her hands on her hips and turning fully towards me so she can fully appreciate the grovelling, apologies and offers of compensation when they come.

“They’re vegan,” I inform her.

“What?” she asks, righteousness rapidly evaporating.

“Veeeeegan,” I say slowly, “No egg.  No dairy.”

“Oh,” she says, shoulders slumping a little.

“So unless he’s got a wheat allergy…”

“He did have a wheat allergy when he was little!” she snaps triumphantly.

“But he doesn’t now.  Because if he did, the teacher would know about it and she would have told me about it when I asked her what allergies the kids in the class have.”

The wind has well and truly gone from her sails now.  Worse, most of the parents present and the teacher have stopped to watch the fireworks.  Her son is grinning triumphantly and nursing the rest of his cake protectively.  Worse still, her even tinier son is staring longingly at the rest of the cupcakes and tugging on her shirt and asking if he can have one too. 

I don’t prolong her misery.  I tell her that she’s more than welcome to give one to her other son providing he doesn’t have any allergies I don’t yet know about.  The instant the words leave my lips he’s grabbed one and made a dash for it.  Wordlessly she turns and leaves.

“You’re welcome!” I call to her rapidly retreating back.

Apparently Charlotte is not the only one who is going to have trouble making friends.