Five minute mug cake

When I first heard of this recipe, I knew it was a keeper. I remember hearing it on the radio about five years ago, and quickly grabbing a pen and paper to scribble it down to make sure I could remember it. I needn't have bothered, as just a few years later, "in a mug" recipes seem to be all the rage at the moment! I wanted to share this one with you all, because I think it's perfectly suited to baby loss mums. For months I struggled to cook or bake, but this recipe barely qualifies as cooking or baking! It also has chocolate, and we all know there are times when chocolate is the answer! It's meant to make a single serve, although I find it's quite large to eat by myself and often end up sharing with my hubby. It's also very quick, so the need for comfort food can be quickly satisfied.

Not pretty, but tasty. I promise.

5 MINUTE CHOCOLATE MUG CAKE
4T    plain flour
4T    sugar
2T    cocoa
1      egg
3T    milk
3T    oil
3T    chocolate chips (optional)
Splash of vanilla essence (optional)

*Add the dry ingredients to a mug and mix well. A bigger mug is better, as there'll be less overflow when cooking.
*Crack an egg and add it to your mug. Make sure you mix well, making sure not to leave pockets of flour in the corners.
*Pour in the oil and milk, and mix.
*Now is the time to add the chocolate chips if you have them, as well as the vanilla essence.
*Pop your mug into a microwave and zap for 3 minutes on maximum power. Depending on the size of your mug, the cake may rise above the rim and start to look a bit strange. That's ok, it will still be tasty! In the photo above, the mug is ginormous; an ordinary mug will give you a very different looking cake!
*Your mug cake is cooked! Take out of the microwave, and enjoy! After all, you slaved over this! ;)

I am not okay

It's been almost four months since our precious Ariella died and was born. Four months. It's been both the slowest and fastest four months for my husband and I. On one hand, it feel like longer than four months since we held our sweet girl, saying hello and goodbye too close together. And yet we can't believe that we've managed four months without our girl...how could that much time have gone past already??

I cry less in public these days. I make it to more social events than I used to. I even manage to work two days a week. I volunteer in the Children's Church most Sundays. I sometimes bring baked goodies to events. 

I am, somehow, getting through this year. But I want you to know that I am not okay. 

Crying less in public doesn't mean I cry less. It just means that I'm tired of always being so vulnerable in public, and can better hold it in until I'm in the safety of my home.

Making it to more social events than I used to doesn't mean I make it to as many as I did before Ariella's death. It just means that I've learnt to put on a brave face and attend at least some things.

Working two days a week doesn't mean I've conquered the anxiety of going out. It just means that I've found something  not too confronting to do that makes me feel like I'm making a difference and that I'm useful.

Volunteering in the Children's Church in no way means I'm alright to be around children. It just means that I needed to get back to some sort of "normal", and since Children's Church was normal for me before Ariella's death, I can normally hold myself together for a few hours each Sunday. Just because I can be in the Children's Church does not mean I can be in the creche. I can't. 

Bringing baked goodies to events doesn't mean I can always cook. It just means that on that particular day, I was able to convince myself to go into the kitchen, as opposed to the days when the mere thought of cooking leaves me in tears, unable to physically make myself do it. 

Just because I'm still here, still standing four months after Ariella's death, does not mean I am okay. I'm not.

I am not okay. 

I get angry - when people do something insensitive, when they expect me to be "moving on" (whatever that means), when people forget that my husband lost his daughter too. I'm not the only one grieving, he is too. And I get angry and hurt when people don't ask how he is going. I am not okay with people focusing on me to the exclusion of my husband. 

I get sad - when people take it for granted that they will have kids, when people complain about the children they do have. I understand that sometimes children can be tiring and frustrating, I've looked after them enough to know this is true. Just don't complain in front of us. We would give ANYTHING to have Ariella alive, even if she was a screamer who never slept or let us leave the room without a tantrum. Please think about what you say about children in front of us, and please remember that if you have a living child, you are blessed. No matter how frustrated or tired they make you.

I get overwhelmed - at the thought of getting up, going out, cooking dinner. But I'm also blessed, by a friend who made us a meal "because we might want a break" and by a friend who willingly agreed to make us a meal when I asked.

I get tired - of crying, of being vulnerable in public, of feeling like I don't fit anywhere except bereaved parent support groups. 

We miss Ariella more than we ever thought it was possible to miss someone. It's been almost four months, but please don't expect us to be okay yet. We're not. 

Late night thoughts

The main thought that is popping into my head lately is it's not supposed to be like this. I'm doing a whole lot better than I was 14 weeks ago, but it's still hard. It's not supposed to be this hard.

Driving home after seeing people set up for a mum's group at church, and driving past the cemetery where Ariella is... it's not supposed to be like this.

Feeling horribly anxious and occasionally physically ill when certain events, groups or people are mentioned, simply because it reminds me of what I don't have? It's not supposed to be like this. 

Regretting having a tidy home, washing up to date and baking done, because I should be too busy or tired to care about a neat house...it's not supposed to be like this. 

And it's true. It shouldn't be like this. That's why Jesus came; it's why He gave up His life so that we don't have to. He rose from the dead as evidence that one day, we too will rise.

One day there won't be death anymore.

One day there won't be pain.

One day I'll be too busy worshiping my God that nothing else will matter. 

Death is swallowed up in victory.
O death, where is your victory?

O death, where is your sting?

1 Corinthians 15:54-55

God's home is now among his people. He will live with them, and they will be His people. God Himself will be with them. He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.

Revelation 21:3-4

THAT'S how it is supposed to be.

Butterfly kisses, bad news and banana bread

There's a famous song called Butterfly Kisses. I used to like it, but now I don't. They lyrics say:

After all that I've done wrong

I must have done something right

To deserve a hug every morning

And butterfly kisses at night

I heard it played at a wedding on the weekend, and my heart just broke. It's hard enough going to weddings: seeing the dad walk his daughter down the aisle, hearing him give a speech about his girl, and maybe watching them dance. I see all of these happen, and know that's another thing we lost when our daughter died. It's all I can do not to run out to my car and sob. And then Butterfly Kisses is played. Sure it's a lovely song, but if the lyrics I underlined are true, does that mean my husband and I did too much wrong, because we won't get those things? Is a living daughter who gives hugs and kisses really a result of doing something right? No.  It's not dependent on how good we are, or even how bad we are. Life happens. Death happens. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. God is still sovereign. 

I hate giving people bad news. Telling family and friends that Ariella had died was one of the most heartbreaking things I've ever had to do. I'm thankful for things like Facebook, which enables us to spread the news and try to make sure everyone knows. But not everyone does know...yet they knew I was pregnant. On the weekend I bumped into someone who knew I was pregnant. The last time I'd seen them was three days before Ariella died. She looked at me and said "you had a baby, didn't you?" And I hated having to tell her that yes, I did, but she was stillborn. The look in her eyes was heartbreaking. She had asked an innocent question, one that I would have joyfully answered if Ariella was alive. Instead I had bad news to give her; it feels like I ruin people's day when I tell them what happened. I don't like making other people sad.

The other day I made banana bread. It may not seem like a big deal, but it was. Before I was pregnant, I loved baking and would bake at least once a week. Then I got morning sickness and couldn't even go into a kitchen without feeling sick, yet alone do any baking. Once the morning sickness left, I was often too tired to bake, and honestly forgot it was an option (as I hadn't done any baking for months). After Ariella was born, I hated the idea of baking. It was another reminder that Ariella wasn't with me - I didn't want to do something that I hadn't been able to do while she was alive. But last week I made banana bread. And I made some muffins too. To me, that's a big deal. Celebrating the small stuff.