Its Rowan’s birthday today. I am up before the rest of these boys waiting for his little face to come around the corner and perhaps coax a smile out of his not-so-typcially-happy-first-thing-in-the-morning-face. (Oh, yesterday he asked “what does coax mean”, out of the clear blue sky, cutest thing eva.) I stayed up way too late last night seriously destroying a perfectly good genoise cake with broken buttercream and terrible dragon drawings. And why oh why did I think salted butter would work instead of unsalted. It doesn’t. It’s gross. I have plans to make whip cream frosting and cover the whole damn mess up. Hopefully the crew of four year olds doesn’t care?? Though Rowans concern with the cake is almost scary. He asked with desperation in his voice yesterday, “Is the cake going to be OK????”, reminding me what a pivotal moment the unveiling of a cake is to this sweet toothed, bowl cut blondie. I have never seen anything like it I tell you. This boy loves him something sweet. At two he would throw himself not he ground and pant, “I DONT LIKE HEALTHY FOOD!”, when supper always magically seemed to proceed dessert. Confusing subject, I know.
I intended on inviting the 4 children simplicity parenting instructed me to for fourth birthday in hopes that it would keep the day less stressful for me and the birthday boy himself. We will see how that pans out. And of course, I still was up late trying to wipe chicken shit off my front door step and scrape beeswax of my newly laundered rug (in which I naively thought running through the washer at the laundromat would help… instead it just turned my red and white striped rug into a bright, almost neon, pink one). But yes, the sun is shiny and the birds are chirpy and I know this birthday party will have some big old smiles and candles and enough little boy energy to send you packing.
My point is, this whole blog sometimes gives a grand illusion of constant cohesiveness and peace, and I really hate that. It even feels that way to me when I scroll back through time reminiscing. It is hard to remember to write equally about the crazy terrible moments, the laughably difficult moments, the hilariously stupid moments, as well as all those beautifully perfect ones too. It is a balance I strive for.
So here is to the sweetest chubby cheeks I have ever had the privilege of squeezing, the little boy who brings me flowers one hundred times a day. And to the same limbs that throw fits so epic, in places so public, they leave me sweaty and confused.
Ah, but to the boy whose bright eyes saw the castle we gave him and whispered an unsolicited and quite unexpected thank you.