In the last four weeks,
I have baked, frosted and decorated ten cakes. Ten. My sugar taste buds are worn down nubs, my hands are still a
reddish hue from food dye and I am currently scouring Amazon for a new hand
mixer. You see, January and February are birthday season in our house, with
three of our five children celebrating within three weeks of each other. A sane
person might ask, “if there are only three birthdays, why so many cakes?” The
reason is this: we celebrate birthdays in a big way; we have a
cake on the actual day of the birthday, a cake for school, a cake for our
family party and a cake for the friends’ party. During fits of self-pity when
all the spatulas are dirty and I have four different icing colors in front of
me, my very practical husband asks “why don’t you just bake one sheet cake and
divide it in three?” His suggestion is very reasonable and sounds good at the
time: fewer pans, fewer burnt out mixers and a lot less dish soap, but then I remember
why I do this every year…
A birthday honors
more than the day these beautiful people came into our lives; it also acknowledges
the moments that have passed along the way and the stage each child is in right
at this moment, in this time. When Maeve, on her third birthday, asks for a
mermaid princess cake, it is because she spends her time wearing plastic heels,
tutus and any kind of outfit with tulle. She is at the stage when I know she is
coming by the click-click of heels on the hardwood and the certainty that she
has changed, yet again, right before a meal which will inevitably end up on the
front of whatever dress is the current choice. Ryan, my six year old, asked for
a blessedly simple blue heart cake for our family party. Ryan is all heart; he
wears it on his sleeve for the world to see, following every rule and trying
his sweet best to make everyone happy. That cake was, to me, who he is and I
know I will remember his blue eyes looking up at me in their gentle way every
time I look at pictures of him blowing out his candles. Claire, my oldest
daughter, wanted a white tiger cake. With fondant, sticky hands and a whole lot
of artistic license, I was able to give her an approximation of the animal with
one eye who shares her pillow with her every night. She has researched white
tigers and has come up with so many ways she thinks might help get them off the
endangered list. My girl is on the verge; her heart is coming through and the
capacity that she has to do good in the world is emerging. Her tiger cake
reminds me that while she might be encountering the world on a grander scale,
she also needs to hold something close at night, keeping it, and herself, safe.
In the end, I make
all those cakes because they mean more to me than a symbol of my kids’ latest
craze. They are, to me, a snapshot of their lives, marking time as it gains
momentum year by year. Looking back on the train cakes, the castle cakes, and
the shark cakes, I am reminded of things they have played with, have loved and,
in the end, have let go for something new. I am filled with gratitude at
knowing these amazing children intimately enough to have a front row seat on
their journey, gratitude that another year has passed in which we are all here,
all smiling and singing as their wishes blow away off into the world.
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