Birthday Cake PTSD

The girls turned two this week. I can’t believe it! It’s been the quickest two years of my life—but also, you know, like one long sleepless night that never seems to end.

I didn’t have a party this year because I felt like they (meaning, me) probably couldn’t handle the stimulation at this age (45). And the whole thing about telling everyone to show up at a certain time when I have no idea what the baby moods are going to be like at any given time is too daunting. Plus, one of my New Year’s resolutions was to be weirder and more introverted.

But I did make a cake, because I’m committed to making the girls a cake every single year of their lives. This is unfortunate for everyone around me, because I don’t really know how to bake, whereas my mom, who stayed with us for the girls’ last two birthdays, is excellent at all things kitchen. Still, I insisted that I was going to make the cake myself, meaning that I had her verbally walk me through it so that I was basically the hands, and she, the brains. I complained a lot, too, just to make it my own.

I made a vanilla complaint cake with butter cream frosting and rainbow sprinkles. It had about 17,000 cups of white sugar and flour, as well as oh about 6 sticks of butter. The sprinkles were not organic, to say the least. That might sound out of character for someone who typically feeds her kids goat milk and homemade apple chips and cookies made out of things like miso and almond flour, but one thing you should know about me is that I am very opinionated about what “eating healthy” means. My personal doctrine is that if you make it with your own hands with love—and expensive ingredients, regardless of their actual character—then it’s “good for you.” 

The cake thing was really interesting. Not the part about me making it, or the cake itself, which was as boring as it gets (#normcore) but the part where you light a cake on fire and stick it on front of two-year olds and demand that they put it out right now!

“Blow! Blow!”

Here we are, a bunch of adults perfectly capable of putting out a small fire, and yet, we make the two-year-olds do it. Why? I am telling you this story from their perspective, as evidenced by this video Emily took of them:

I have watched this video hundreds of times, and each time I watch it, I become more alarmed that I am harming my children psychologically. Look at Eliza pointing frantically to the cake and shouting “UH OH!!!!” and the look of sheer concern on Phoebe’s face.

Watching this video makes me realize how absurd some of our traditions are. I mean, leaving Santa Claus and the tooth fairy alone for now, have you ever thought about the tradition of lighting a cake on fire for small children and then sing-shouting at them as they look on in helplessness, confusion, and fear? Does that seem at all weird to anyone else?

Having kids makes you start to question things you have always taken for granted. I guess this is why people always say, “My kids are my greatest teachers.” I always thought that sounded so trite and inane, and I am not going to say it out loud because of that, but—they are. They teach me about our culture (how ridiculous it can be), about human nature (basically feral), and especially about myself.

I see myself in them, and it can be shocking. Eliza, for instance, bites her nails, and she’s only two. Jon says this is because she sees me bite my nails (it’s actually my cuticles that I bite, but maybe that’s a technicality), but I felt vindicated when my pede told us the other day that it’s probably just genetic (also my fault, however).

Also, my kids can really throw a tantrum. The level of energy and emotion they put into it is genuinely impressive. When they do it, I will say things like “Wow! Where did that come from?” But I know exactly where it came from. Me. I still haven’t really grown out of that phase, either.

Another thing my daughters seem to have inherited from me is a true love of gift-getting. They learned a new word just for Christmas and their birthday this year: “OPEN!!!!!” Like most toddlers, I imagine, they don’t really care what lies under the wrapping paper, but they really get off on the sheer glee of opening gifts.

Anyway, the gifts were awesome because Vanessa was there, and also my mom, who hand-sewed them adorable pajamas with foxes and kittens on them as well as a possy of pillows for the teepee, or as we call it, the tent of naughtiness: