Today, we got to sing Axel's favorite song, Happy Birthday. And not just because I didn't want him to land a kick in my stomach during a diaper change or because I was trying to keep him awake in the car - it was because it was his actual birthday.
He's old enough now to demand multiple cupcakes, to refuse to peddle a tricycle, to cook imaginary seven-course feasts, to finger paint all green masterpieces, to announce to the world when he's pooped, to command that I sit down next to him, to build wobbly twenty-brick towers of Legos, to adorably mispronounce his brother's name (Nonas), to take flying leaps off of the couch into my arms, to have conversations (even if they generally center on heavy machinery), to understand that Trick or Treating means the chance to grab fistfuls of candy, to bestow hugs on all his friends and family, and to say his age - "Two!" while holding up a single index finger.
He's two. Two! He went from this...
To this...
...in two years. Yesterday he was a zygote, and today he's two. Maybe that's why I'm so tired. Well, that and the blizzard and the sickness and the birthday party at the zoo. I would write witty things here, but I really need a nap. Birthday parties are exhausting. Last year, I went all out. This year, I thought I could handle a very small party at the zoo, bringing nothing but ourselves and delicious cupcakes from a local shop, and keeping the guest list very small. And, while Axel had fun seeing the elephants and riding the train in his train engineer costume, I still came close to having a tired and hungry meltdown on our way out of the zoo. "Cranky" was not the adjective I wanted as a mother on my oldest son's birthday.
This makes me wonder why I do this - throw birthday parties. It's not like Axel asked for a birthday party this year or last year. He certainly doesn't know the difference between a small celebration at home with his family and a party with ten of his closest friends. He had a good time at the zoo, and I think the few guests we had enjoyed it as well. I think that the thirty or so people at his first birthday had a nice time, too. But I think he would've had a nice time with just his family at the zoo. I think that his guests would've had a nice time if I hadn't decided to put together favor bags with six things in them, or if we'd had a party at our house and I didn't vacuum the floors before the party and had nothing but pizza to feed them.
I found myself getting angry at my husband because he didn't send out the evites/decide on the cupcakes/pick up things for the favor bags/put together favor bags/etc./etc/etc. In our house, birthday parties fall firmly into my realm of responsibility.
And then I realized - wait a second - NO ONE NEEDS TO DO THIS CRAP. Not Sean. Not me. No one is judging us on the quality of the favor bags and, well, if they are, I don't think that's the sort of person whose opinion I care about anyway.
I'm the one who has a standard of child's birthday party perfection of mythical origin in my head. And that's why I'm the one who doesn't really have much fun - because I'm too worried if everyone else is having a good time and if we had the right kind of a party and if the cupcakes are smushed and if we have enough healthy snacks to balance out the sugar.
Birthday parties are supposed to be fun. Primarily fun for the birthday kid, but at least a little fun for the birthday parents. This whole birthday extravaganza perfection pressure is nonsense. And, worse, it's nonsense that I've created for myself.
The next cupcake occasion will be Jonas' first birthday. That party is going to be a first for me, too - first child's birthday party at which I relax and enjoy. Maybe we'll have just family. Maybe we'll invite friends to help celebrate. Maybe I'll attempt to make a zebra-shaped birthday cake from scratch, just because it seems like fun and like something the boys would like. But either way, there will be more celebrating than cleaning, and more playing than attempts at perfection.
Happy birthday, kid. I love you.
