22 hours to go

You’d think making my tiny person a birthday cake would make her deliriously happy. You’d think she could let me work in peace, rather than wail on the floor, gripping my legs as though the world were at its end. You’d think she would sit down quietly and say “Mama” just to show me how much she loves the effort. I’m guessing that since she had no idea what I was doing up there with her measuring cups and spoons and since she’s never had a birthday cake before, then standard operating procedure shouldn’t be such a shock. So I mix and shush and even (this is where you all bow down in awe) nurse her while I bake, one arm cradling her and the other spooning batter into the pans. I even curse a little, ‘cause dammit girl, I’m making you a cake, get OFF!

The house has been cleaned; the deck is being made ready with a smattering of little person tables and chairs, coolers and big person tables. Mark, Lily and Heidi (MIL) are off in our truck fetching multiple barbeques for the lower courtyard, as well as additional coolers and chairs. It’s mind boggling, all this stuff to do, but I feel like I have something of a handle on it with my little list (I am such a virgo), my cake in the oven and butter softening to make icing.

At least I can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that these girls of mine are worth ever last bit of it.

Painting together