Like I mentioned in my last post, Theo is very nearly one. His birthday is on Wednesday, and though we’re not doing much (as in having a big party) we’re doing traditional birthday things. I’ll make (what think is) his favorite dinner, we’ve wrapped a few presents for him, one of which he can open in the morning, and the others which will wait until evening. And I’ll make him a cake, and he’ll blow (or slobber) out a candle.
Now, I’m not having a breakdown about my baby turning one. It’s been a year–so it’s about time, right?! He’s growing up, and it’s not nearly so bittersweet as I hear other people say it is. I love seeing him start to do things so purposefully–open and close containers, stack plastic donuts, take things out of drawers, and put different things in.
But one thing did bring a few tears to my eyes. When I thought about what kind of cake to make, I realized that this was the first (out of many) cakes I would be making for my son. I’m not just someone making a cake for someone else’s birthday, I’m the mom making the cake. I’ll make his cakes every year until he’s too far away.
I’m Theo’s mom every day. I change the diapers, and the clothes, make the food, clean the messes and generally run around after him. But what’s so special about this cake is that I’m going to keep doing it, as long as I’m his mom. Hopefully, the diapers will disappear, and he’ll be able to spread his own peanut butter and jelly, but I’ll always make his cake.