My son is going to be 30 this weekend and today I am baking his birthday cake. Red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting and served on a wire cupcake stand, as per his request. From scratch. And because it will be a large family gathering in Vancouver, there may well be more people than the cupcake stand can accomodate. Which means I may also make a second cake, flavour yet to be determined.
It’s strange, having a child turn 30. I don’t feel any different at 53 than I did at 30. I think in a lot of ways I still feel 30 on the inside, even if my outsides prove otherwise. So how can 30 years have gotten past me so quickly?
Memory is funny that way.
Dearest Michael, I remember your shout of glee, your sagging training pants and orange striped socks, a joyful toddler leaping into daddy’s arms, flying across the open expanse between coffee table and couch without fear, landing against daddy’s chest only to bounce off and do it again and again and again, ending in the inevitable knock on daddy’s head with your tight little fist, “‘body home? ‘body home?” And then your squeal of laughter when daddy knocked back, “anybody home?” When you leaned in, slumped into his chest, I watched as he breathed in a slow breath of sweet toddler sweat, as you rose and fell against the beating of his heart.
And I remember when you got your first bike when you were four because you had started throwing tantrums and daddy said no way we’re not rewarding bad behaviour but I said he needs his freedom from the daycare kids in the back yard, he is getting older he needs to be allowed to do more, trusted to be a big boy, he is asking us to help him grow up, and so we went to town and you picked out a purple bike with handle bars that came up to daddy’s knee and white training wheels and plastic streamers in the hand grips and we put clickers in the spokes and a helmet on your head and you were allowed to ride from our house to three houses down and back again. You stopped throwing tantrums, and a year later daddy took the training wheels off and ran behind you, back and forth up and down, one hand on the back of the seat, on your back, on your helmet, hovering, hovering, until you looked back and saw him running beside you, look, look, no hands!
No hands, my darling. We are so proud of you. I am so blessed to be your mom.
7 Replies to “H is for Happy Birthday!”
Know what? You won’t feel any different at 67, inside your head. My husband’s grandmother told me when she was … oh, gosh, in her 80s, I guess? She didn’t feel any different inside than when she was 18 and met her husband. It’ll be a shock when you look in the mirror, though. =) Happy birthday to your son.
ah! Makes me happy!
We so enjoy your insight to life! What you manage to portray in your writing is your vulnerable and soft side. Your from the “H” eart and it makes you one special lady…”H” appy Birthday celebrations in other cultures celebrate the Mother…so “H” appy Birthday to you both! xx
First, you have a good looking son! Secondly what a sweet a loving way to say happy birthday and I love you. Proof that you are a great mother!
Awww, Happy Birthday Michael
You write so beautifully and I often wonder how I can be a mum of advancing years. My baby will be 30 this year and her big sister will be 33. Just HOW has that happened? Now I am a Granny too. Enjoy your cake making and celebrations.
What a nice post!! Happy birthday Michael!! 🙂