LET THEM EAT CAKE

Two birthdays in the span of less than a week. 
One anticipates kindergarten.
The other, walking.

It's a HUGE deal that five year old birthday party.  So why then did I wait 'til the day before to pull out great grandma's homemade chocolate cake recipe and the KitchenAid?  Uhm, I mean, order the cake?   A HUGER (yes, my word) deal still that first birthday.  And I don't have a single present wrapped yet?  Uhm, okay, I mean bought.

What's up with that?

Fine.  I'm a crappy mom.  But truth be known, I don't even remember my fifth birthday party let alone my first.  While some might think me putting the store bought cake on a pedestal and passing it off as my own akin to plagiarism, I think it's sheer genius.  But hold on a second.  Before my regulars (all 5 of you) jump to my defenses with, "...but you're not a crappy mom...you're really not..." I invite you to raise your glass (hand if you're foregoing) and toast ALL the crappy moms out there like me.  And by 'crappy' I mean:

1.  You're running around half the time like John Bobbit; your dick in your hands focused on getting that thing sewn back on ASAP but failing to notice that your house is burning down, the dog just ate a pooey diaper and is licking the baby's face and your bra's on inside out. 
translation:  YOU'RE BUSY

2.  You're just a smidge grumpy from that four hour cat-nap most call 'nightime'.
translation:  YOU'RE TIRED

3.  You pass off the bedtime story because it's easier to snuggle your kiddo tight in your arms as he lays transfixed by (insert cartoon).
translation:  YOU'RE SCARED HE'S GROWING UP TOO DAMNED FAST

Cheers ladies, here's to the next 365 days. 

May they be worth every single candle on the next (store bought) cake.

Dear Son,

I've dreamed many things for you; college, the first real job, moving out, marriage...so why did yesterday throw me for such a loop?   One minute you were cruising down the sidewalk at lightning speed on a borrowed Big Wheel and the next you were sailing by on a bike.


A bike without training wheels.


Um, excuse me but when did you learn to do this?  You did not ask for my permission to reach this milestone.  Weren't you supposed to fight gravity for a week or two?  Wasn't Papa supposed to be worn ragged as he followed you up and down the block, his hand glued to the back of the seat?  Where are your skinned knees?  Your bloody knuckles?  What's next?  Writing your name?  Reading a book?  Tying your shoe? How dare you grow up on me!


Time is passing too quickly.  I go to sleep on Monday and wake up to Friday. Spring turns to fall before I've had a chance to even smell the first perfect blooms from the flowering pear tree out back.  And you, you are growing up at rocket speed, racing away from me to do those Big Kid Things that are now just fond memories of my own youth.  I watch, no,  I study you.  Is it possible to trick a lingering moment and trap it into a memory? 
   

Every beetle is a gazelle in the eyes of its mother, so says the Arab proverb.  And you are no exception, my son.  No matter how far you ride away from me, you will always be to me my little boy...my Boy Wonder.