Jon loves birthdays. Even if it's not his birthday he's pretty fired up.
Birthdays mean cake and presents and company, altered nap times and eating in a different chair, sometimes in an entirely different room of the house than usual. Who wouldn't love that?
Birthdays at daycare bring treats and games, birthdays at restaurants bring loud singing and clapping from complete strangers. Hooray for birthdays!
But he doesn't understand that not everybody is going to have a big fantastic blow-out birthday every year. To him, it's unfathomable that a person might just want to have a normal everyday-kind-of-day on their birthday.
Que my the morning of my birthday.
"Jon, it's Mom's birthday today. Can you tell her 'Happy birthday' and give her a big kiss?" My husband asked.
"IT'S YOUR BIRFDAY? HOORAY! WHO'S COMING OVER? DO I HAVE TO TAKE A NAP? ARE THEY BRINGING PRESENTS FOR ME, OR JUST YOU? I LOVE PRESENTS! I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW IT WAS YOUR BIRFDAY THIS DAY!" Kisses all over my face and he bounced out of my bed muttering, "This is gonna be great, I have to tell my Buddies..."mumble mumble mumble...
"Calm down, buddy, no one's coming over, " I told him, knowing we were about to have some drama.
"But it's your birfday."
"I know honey, but grownups don't always have parties for their birthdays. Sometimes we just like to go out for lunch and have a quiet day."
"BUT THAT'S NOT A BIRFDAY! BIRFDAYS HAVE CAKE! DON'T YOU WANT CAKE? WE NEED IT!"
"Would you like to help Mom make a cake after lunch?"
"Yes YES YES! Hooray we get cake! I'm going to go tell my Buddies........You guys, we get to make a cake today, it's Mommy's birfday!"(By the way he has since stopped conversing with the Buddies on a regular basis. They do most of their chatting after bedtime now.)
By lunch time I had to wash my face because it was beginning to smell like animal crackers and saliva from all the birfday kisses I had been getting. Then we went out for Mexican and returned home to bake my cake.
We got a Funfetti cake mix and I mixed up some powdered sugar icing to frost it. I even got out a fancy cake plate with a dome, so it would be super special. Jon wanted to frost it green. It looked pretty gross.
"Mommy that cake is beautiful! Now we have to mark it with a B."
"What are you talking about?"
"You know, roll it and pat it and mark it with a B. That's how you make cakes. There's a song about it." Thanks for the heads up on that.
"Well honey, that song is about pat-a-cakes. This is just a regular cake. We don't need to mark it with a B."
"Yes. We do. You just take some frosting and you make a B. Let's do it." Clearly we're not getting around this step in the birthday cake process.
"OK, I think I have some squirty frosting in the cupboard. It's pink. One pink letter B coming up."
"It's not a letter mom. It's a B. "
"Honey, a B is a letter. It makes the "buh" sound. Like buh-buh-baby, or buh-buh-boy."
"No-wuh." He likes to make one syllable words into two syllable words when I'm trying his patience. "Not that kind of B! This kind." And he jumps off the chair and starts buzzing around the kitchen, wiggling his fingers next to his face, "Bzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz. You know? That kind of bee."
Aha! Not a B, a BEE. Well, don't I look silly, thinking all these years cakes were marked with a "B" for Baby and me.
So here it is, in all it's glory, marked with a bee.