So my oldest kid is three. I anticipated the celebration of this birthday to be the best yet because Margot’s opinions and preferences are now uniquely her own, compared to last year when she loved what all two year-olds love. She loves her darker hot pink panda bear, lighter blue next to darker blue, rainbow socks, a yellow truck she calls her son. She loves hip hop music, her pineapple skirt with heart tights, bug pjs, snuggling with me at night while I make up stories about our pets riding carousels. She teaches me uninhibited joy, true conviction, honest emotion and fierce passion. I wanted her, us, to have the best dang birthday celebration. A day dedicated to celebrating our unique, funny kid.
We went to more than a dozen birthday parties last summer and, every time Margot asked when she could have her own birthday party. Again and again I explained that it would happen when the grass was covered by snow and again and again she would ask. When it started getting closer I asked what she wanted to do and she said, “balloons, cake, ice cream and just all of my friends would be great.”
Over the course of a few weeks, Margot imagined her party: dark blue balloons, a rainbow cake with “lighter blue and darker blue frosting and blue sprinkles.” Tofu, cheesy noodles, ketchup, apples and peanut butter, toast with jam, beets, carrots, quesadillas. It was entirely fun to help her realize her perfect day. Because I love her.
I stayed up really late on Friday night making her cake. It wouldn’t have been as late had I remembered to grease the cake pans, had the cakes come out cleanly, had I only had to make four cakes one time. But, alas, I didn’t butter the pans, they did stick and I did have to start over at 10pm. I was *this* close to throwing the cakes across the kitchen. Andy calmly asked, “Babe, why didn’t you butter the pans?” And I calmly thought in my head, “Babe, why did you wash your cell phone four times?”
I went to the store and bought boxed cake mix, came home, made myself a martini and made my girl a cake. It really was a labor of love. Before Margot went to bed, she had helped me mix all the colors for the cakes, the color for the frosting. She was excited and I wanted her to have that cake she dreamed of when she went to bed.
The next morning, my exhaustion vaporized when she saw her funky cake. “Oh mom! That’s MY cake? With lighter blue and darker blue? This is the best cake I have ever seen!” We spent the morning dancing to Boom Boom Pow, 1234, These Boots are Made for Walkin’ and The Swimming Song while making cheesy food items. We ventured to our friends’ gym for the party, blew up balloons, danced in the mirror and ran like three year-olds on the padded floor. Her friends came and gave her gifts that were so perfectly her: red sparkley shoes, homemade play dough with glitter, books about animals, stickers, games, a cake with a blue duck, a guitar, jewelry, pajamas.
I swear I about burst from the love I felt for her and from that room of people when we sang around her and her cake. She beamed, her little round face glowing from the candles and her own happiness. I kept laughing, extinguishing candles as we sang. It was one of those Life Distilled moments of unbound, simple, complete hopefulness.
We played, cleaned and loaded. Our entire family took a nap. I laid with Margot and fell asleep to her quietly recounting her day, “And I played with Owen. And Pam gave me a guitar. And I ate so much cake. And all my friends sang Happy Birthday to Margot…”
Margot Bea is three. And I realize I strive to be just like her. She exhibits whole-hearted devotion and unapologetic confidence in her choices. She is purely amazed by every little new thing that crosses her path. She wants a hug before anything else, stops to watch box elder bugs and, every single morning, finds wonder and humor over breakfast. She wants to play and wear footed pjs all day. She loves.
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