I should be in an advertisement with crumbs and frosting all over my face and a large headline that reads, “Got Cake?” We have celebrated 10 family birthdays in the past several months. We’ve had a lot of cake—according to the scales, about three pounds’ worth.
There was vanilla with fudge icing, a bird nest cake, a rosebud cake, cheesecake, angel food cake, cake accompanied by sparklers, crème brulee in lieu of cake, a princess cake and a pirate cake.
This birthday marathon is akin to a car’s odometer rolling over to 100,000. All of the grands have rolled over in a fairly short time span. Their ages are once again in consecutive numerical order and can be recited rapid fire: 7, 6, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 and 8 months.
They’re getting older now, so we’re no longer doing as much of that move where someone sniffs a diaper, thrusts a little one at another adult and says, “Here, this one belongs to you!” We’re doing a lot more of “Who needs to go potty? When was the last time you went potty?” Well, that and yelling at the boys, “Don’t do that outside! You’re in the city, not in the woods!”
The dress-up box remains popular, although the tutus, high heels and old purses are running neck-and-neck in the popularity polls with capes and masks, Viking helmets, a plastic sword, a safari hat and a red felt cowboy hat that has weathered some brutal cattle drives.
The doll stroller still gets a workout, but the wagons equally so. The greatest delight is finding a way to connect an old small metal wagon to a deluxe plastic wagon. Together they make a terrific rumble over the sidewalks, shaking the neighbors’ windows and give new meaning to the term wagon train.
The parents of the grands share similar approaches to electronics and digital devices in that they believe they can wait. That’s not to say the older ones don’t know what a selfie is or how to place a call. It’s just that there are other more pressing things to do—like flood the sandbox, drench your cousins or go on a hike looking for leaves, tracks and animal bones.
Once in a blue moon the crowd goes high-brow on us with an occasional program. There has been dancing, singing, recitations and a blossoming fiddle player who does a snappy “Happy Birthday” and “Go Tell Aunt Rhody,” a tune that if you hear more than twice will remain in your head for 72 hours straight.
It is chaos when we are all together. Wonderful, blessed chaos. We do best with the chaos, birthday and otherwise, when the weather is good and the overflow can spill outside and into the backyard.
Naturally, I’m hoping for an unseasonably warm Thanksgiving and Christmas.