I'll never forget my firstborn's first birthday. He was 1 and I was clinically insane.  Instead of buying a perfectly wonderful birthday cake from the bakery, I just had to create it myself.  So, I marched myself right over to Michael's craft store (and this is a store I have come to utterly loathe in a very Grinch-like fashion) and purchased not one, not two helpful decorating tips, but the ENTIRE Wilton Cake Decorating Set.  What's $170?  Can you see what I mean?  Certifiable.

I  had absolutely no idea how to use the tools whatsoever.  Maybe signing up for a cake decorating class would have served me well.  I made 3 cakes.  I was really going for the gusto with the first one - attempting some sort of realistic looking horse. Um, that didn't work out so well.  Buh bye horsey.  I decided to dial down my enthusiasm and try for a simpler theme...a truck.  That should be easy, right?  Well, YEAH, I guess if you possessed ANY SORT OF SKILL IN THE TRADE OF CAKE DECORATING at all!  But I did not.  Sorry, Mr. Truck, it's off to the dump for you.

And so I finally threw in the towel and made a plain old double layer round cake with an icing job that could have been just as easily done with the plastic screw on tips you get at the grocery store.  I think I got a little fancy and added some balloons.  It was pretty bad.  REALLY bad.  The sorriest $200 cake you'll  ever see, in fact.

But the point is that this is fairly normal for parents of first born children.  You overachieve.  No, you TRY to overachieve.  And you fail.  But it's the desire to make it all so extraordinarily wonderful that compels you.  Parties, celebrations, firsts of every kind must be sheer perfection.  There must be bunnies, balloons, butterflies and flowers growing out of everyone's butts.

Then baby #2 arrives, and you know what?  You are just not as compelled.  But still, you really want to make everything nice and fun for that child.  Certainly the birthday party experience will still include inviting guests, decorating with streamers and fashioning delightful goodie bags.  

And then, my friends, baby #3 hits the scene.  And you could give a rat's ass about birthday parties.  You know in the back of your mind that you should.  But try as you might you don't.  And my particular problem is that my third child is the ruler of a small country and doesn't take kindly to not being celebrated in what he deems to be the appropriate fashion.

Let's take William's most recent birthday, for example.  

April 22, 2008

6:00 a.m.:  I awake to him staring down at me, looking not pleased.

Me:            "Hey, hi.  What are you doing?" (rubbing my eyes, trying to wake up)

William:      "Nobody has said Happy Birthday to me yet." (scowling)

Me:             "Oh. Is anybody else awake?

William:       "Just the dog."

Me:             "Well, then, how was any-....never mind.  Happy Birthday! I love you!" (snuggle, snuggle)

William:       leaving room..."Well, I sure hope THIS day gets better."

Me:             Pulling sheets up over my head and whispering a prayer,"Oh Lord.  Please help me get through this day."

And so the day begins.  All told, we sing Happy Birthday to him about 16 times.  This brings him large amounts of short-lived joy.  At one point during the LONG afternoon, however, I see that he is visibly forlorn.  

"What's wrong?"  I force myself to ask.

"It seems like nobody really cares about my birthday."  It is so very hard, at times like this, to maintain voluntary control over my eyeballs.

Now granted, we have just moved into our new town.  He doesn't have any friends yet.  So a real party would be difficult.  But his brothers and I make ourselves available to do whatever he wants on this, HIS ROYAL MAJESTY'S day... he issues the declaration.  He demands wants a POOL PARTY.  So we swim in our pool, even though it is chilly.  Ok, I will admit, I really wasn't giving it much effort.  Doesn't it count, if I sit on the edge and swish my feet around?  I push a little harder and grill hot dogs on the grill and we sing to him IN the pool.   We do have plans to take him out to dinner tonight after all.   

Unfortunately, I still haven't picked out a present for him OR made a cake and it is getting late.  I am fearful a beheading might be the end result of this.  

I make up some lame excuse and leave the kids to go to the grocery store where I buy the cake mix, the canned frosting and those plastic decorating tips, but only because they are on sale.  And praise God, they now sell every kind of gift card known to man at the grocery store.  I buy him an American Express gift card.  With balloons on it.  IF that doesn't say I love and appreciate you, I don't know what does.    I manage to rush home and bake the cake in no time flat, with just enough time to take a shower before dinner.

Dinner is very nice and William is the only child allowed to order something expensive.  And he does, of course.  A top of the line filet mignon and 2 Roy Rogers with extra cherries, if you please. 

The other two eat their affordable meals while gazing longingly at his plate.  Part way through our meal, William leans over and whispers to me:

And I am just cringing inside, because I know if I make that request one of the other two butt-heads is going to laugh and make fun.  Which is totally reasonable in this situation, but still.  I just don't want this birthday to end in tears and drama.  

Somehow, though, they manage to hold it together for William.  These are the kinds of special privileges afforded to the birthday boy or girl in our household.  Basically in its purest form, being the birthday person gives you ultimate immunity for the day.  And William wields it like a sword.

Dad starts us off and says some really good stuff. Johnny manages to pull out a good one too.  And I am starting to panic.  Really, sweat is forming at the small of my back, here in the air condition.  I draw a complete blank.  I honestly cannot think of a single fond memory of him as a baby.  AAACCCKKK.  

I may as well prepare myself for the inevitable ship off to the working camps in Siberia.  It's not that there were no nice times.  It's just he was a difficult baby.  The poor guy had eczema all over his body, food allergies and he was pretty uncomfortable.  And he was always crying.  And I was also taking care of 2 other young children.  So, I think I may have blocked a lot out.  That and the grain alcohol.  <joking>

I don't even recall what I said when it was my turn.  It was lame, really lame.  And the only thing that saved me was that the phone rang and it was his Grandparents calling to wish him Happy Birthday.  Thank you, so so much.  You'll never know.

After dinner, I rushed home to frost the cake.  And here is the glorious confection in all of its, well glory:

And you know what?  The doggone thing looks as pathetic as the one I made 16 years ago, when I actually gave a crap about how the cake looked.

p.s. The 'ME" in her parallel universe is a tremendous cake decorator and can do things like this:Cake Decorating Tips