My lavish party cakes taught me unexpected lessons about parenting and accepting myself

This First Person column is written by Christina Bagatavicius, a proud mom who lives in Toronto and runs a cultural consultancy. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

Sometimes I like to make party cakes and, when I do, they are never humble affairs. 

The first over-the-top cake I made was for my husband's 39th birthday, and our entire family went "all in" on a prehistoric dinosaur volcano cake with six layers of towering cake rounds. The volcano base was a velvety layer of brown fondant that looked like a high school science experiment. There were menacing marzipan velociraptors, tropical trees with pretzels for trunks, a shimmering waterfall with sprinkles and translucent gels. 

Ashen boulders (aka Bulk Barn cookies-and-cream chunks) were scattered around red hot lava and a garish green and blue icing landscape. To ensure we had the live drama of a volcanic eruption, I tracked down a guy who sells dry ice by the kilo — all so we could have a billow of smoke for the "happy birthday" moment.

Let's also be real: these cakes are not purely altruistic endeavours. 

My cakes strive to be larger-than-life lavish celebrations. When that cake moment happens, I want eyes to widen, jaws to drop and for everyone to believe in magic. 

On the eve of my kiddo's birthday, you can usually catch me working into the wee hours of the night, absentmindedly humming with my sleeves rolled up in a creative trance. The entire kitchen ends up messy, covered in a thin layer of icing sugar. 

Celebration cakes are my love language. Some years, the whole family gets involved in the cake-making process, rolling out the fondant and crafting decorations. Other years, it's my stealth operation. 

Are they a bit too much? Probably, yes, but these unwieldy, big creative projects enable me to exist as my truest self – too enthusiastic, too intense, too colourful. 

Just over a year ago, my youngest son, Teddy, was diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) when he was eight. As we tried to figure out how to support him, I also discovered that I have ADHD. I was 44. Before an assessment, I had thought that my "all or nothing" attitude toward life was a personality trait rather than neurodivergence.

As a parent, I'm sometimes my own harshest critic, especially when I fall short on super simple tasks. I make personalized school lunches only to mix up the lunch bags or forget utensils. I book events into my calendar, but still manage to mix up the times or dates. I also rarely remember where household items belong, place them into a new spot and then ask for help when I can't find them later.

I take comfort in that first bedtime conversation Teddy and I had about ADHD and how it might show up in our strengths and struggles. Wise beyond his years, Teddy told me that the best thing about ADHD is that it's something we share. We chatted about how sometimes it can feel like the whole world has been designed for somebody else, and also how excruciating it can be to experience long stretches of boredom or stillness. Not to mention tackling life's tedious and finicky tasks, like the effort involved in putting on a pair of socks. 

Sometimes we also get spaced, we interrupt, we lose track of time. But then, if we can make it through these struggles, there are the wondrous perks of ADHD: minds that move so quickly, ideas that overflow, an abundance of boundless energy, excitement and positivity.  

There are many valuable life lessons that my kids will never learn from me. But if there's one small lesson I hope they take from my cake-making extravaganzas, it is that they can create almost anything they can imagine. And also that there is a warm joy to be had when we care for others and make them feel extra special.

About two weeks before the party, we conceptualize the theme and get a bit obsessed, scouring through Nailed It! episodes and researching endless Pinterest boards. Sometimes I create little hand-drawn sketches to get family consensus on the vision. No earlier than four days before the party (I always need a deadline), we shift into making it happen.

Day one: Buy ridiculous amounts of cake supplies.

Day two: Bake ridiculous amounts of cake.

Day three: Whip up ridiculous amounts of colourful buttercream. 

Day four: Prep decorative elements and make a ridiculous celebration cake.

I don't like to admit it, but sometimes I falter on day two. While my rational mind understands that baking is a science, the temptation to "go rogue" and improvise weighs heavy. I have to force myself to slow down, to carefully read and re-read the recipe, and not to skip any steps. Sometimes I take a deep, mindful breath and remind myself, it's only a cake. 

Still, there have been years when I secretly modify an ingredient or splice two or three different recipes together, because I cannot resist the urge to try something new. More often than not, these are the cakes that end up looking a little better than they taste.

Some might think that the greatest tragedy of all is that our cakes are doomed to be eaten. Why waste the time? 

Guests have commented on this before — that it seems like a shame to put so much energy into such a short-lived outcome. Yet for me, the moment just before cutting that first slice is when the celebration shines brightest. Even though life is fleeting, we get lulled into our day-to-day rhythms, as if everything lasts forever but literally nothing does. 

By putting so much care into something so obviously impermanent, for a brief second, we can feel just how precious these shared celebrations together are. 

If only everything in life could be as intentional as making a cake for someone I love.

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