Turning 3

I am fond of traditions. Gavin's birthday was easy; I went into labor over take-out Thai food, so every year we go on a hunt for panang curry and eat off the coffee table on the night before his birthday. Leif's birth did not present an inspired moment for reenactment, unless I want to pick a fight with an OB, tell off some nurses, or wear disposable underpants. There was, at least, the small matter of unhooking myself from the monitors and making a run for it down the L&D hallway, backless gown a-flapping, to stand in the waiting room with my family and scarf down a plate of rice, scrambled eggs, and bacon before the ghoul-nurses could find me and chase me back to the bed. It is a symptom of cultural dysfunction that laboring women are forbidden from eating while performing a marathon of physical activity. We have rice and eggs and bacon every August 6th now, although I don't make them eat it standing up and pantless. And while that's fine and all, it seems like a meager tradition, so we baked brownies the night before and speculated that every year we could bake a different kind of brownie. Which I think we decided last year would be varieties of banana bread. It looks as if the annual tradition will be the scrabble for an annual tradition. You're welcome, Leif!

Anyway, Gavin wasn't home for any of this tradition business, having spent the night with friends, so we ate his bacon and I set to work making chocolate butter cream. I was aiming for something like this:

And ended up with this:

Well, who cares, when there are toys jammed into it? The child made his wish, and it probably wasn't for more evenly layered lilikoi buttercream.

I had to drive with two cats loose in the car once. That is kind of what kiddie parties are like. We supplied a piñata, pizza, prizes, and waterplay - just trying to stand out of the way and hide in our novelty cups of prohibited park beverages.

After an initial period of "I'm bored" and "I don't waaaant any cake", the short people began heated bartering with piñata loot, broke the sprinkler, fought over Spongebob's dismembered limbs, and in general had a wonderful time. 

savages

The moms had all stayed home to bask in their childless houses, so I regaled the men with Leif's birth story instead. "It isn't a party until you talk about your filthy vagina*," said Mike. 

Suddenly there was a thunderous mooing and a bunch of cows came stampeding over the neighboring hillside. We decided that was a good note to end on.

The infink was so happy with the party and the presents that I had to run him down with a wet wipe while he was launching rubber Angry Birds to get him clean enough to chuck in bed. He threw himself onto the pillows, snuggled up against me, and was snoring before I finished singing the first song. My boy is 3; going to school, talking conversationally, running fearlessly into the ocean, and still baby enough to call for me at night and throw a fit when his cereal is poured incorrectly. He's smart and funny and just a bit mean; three things I really love together in a person. 

Happy Birthday, Leif!

*actual words used by OB. Why yes, I'm still mad at him.