Why I Cried at the Bakery on my Son's Birthday

Our first child has just hit a number on his birthday cake that brought tears to my eyes...in the bakery section of the grocery store. It's not really one of the typical monumental birthdays or a number which even merits its own special celebratory section of the card store. Those are reserved for 1st birthdays, the official teenage-ness of 13, of course hitting the streets at 16, and then the obvious 21. Those are the big ones, right? My first born baby did not reach any of those ages last week, but still, I was shocked at how freaked out I became at his actual age.

It's 12.

I picked up his birthday cake from the bakery lady. (Read the epilogue for how I forgave myself for giving up on homemade birthday cakes). Over the counter, the baker passed me this huge, gory-looking, red and black cake that was decorated to match Reese's vampire-themed birthday party that night. It had black bats flying all over it, and oozing over the sides of the cake was dripping, dark, crimson blood (made of icing, of course). It was not the type of cake that would usually cause a mother to ooh, aah and then emotionally reminisce about the long-gone days when her fast-growing son was a newborn baby.

However, we are talking about me here.

I looked at that vile cake that was going to be just what we needed for Reese's Halloween birthday party, and my mama tears bubbled to the surface. I read those familiar words which I have seen eleven times before, but this time...this year, they were written in double layers of red and black icing, and they said "Happy 12th Birthday!"

When did my itty-bitty, easy-going, dark-haired baby boy become a 12-year-old kid?

I've told you before about him wearing men's size clothing. His shoes are bigger than his dad's. The literature and science which interest him are helping his mind to grow in ways I can only dream will continue to be fostered for years to come. These changes have been gradual. They happened before my eyes, but they occurred alongside all of the other daily grinds we experience while parenting Reese and his siblings. I guess I didn't take the time to notice how much he has grown until that day. His 12th birthday.

I stood in the grocery line to pay for this cake and the last few items I needed before his birthday party on a rainy, windy, cold Halloween night. Again, I looked down at that ghoulish cake at the bottom of my buggy.

TWELVE!

Darn, more tears.

I reached for my phone to send Mark a message to let him know what I was feeling that very second. I wanted to share it with someone. No, not just with someone. With the man who brought this baby into the world with me.

Here's our conversation:

Me: "I can't believe our baby is 12 today..."

Mark: "I know. I love you."

Me: "Getting teary..."

Mark: "Yeah I know. (Kissy face emoticon)."

How lucky am I to have a husband who knows me so well? He knows me so well that he can tell when my texts are coming from an emotional and tearful place. I don't act like this on every birthday, I promise. He knows how much being a mother has shaped me, and how much of myself I have poured into the lives of each person in this family. Because Reese was our first baby, we learned how to do everything together when he was born. We're actually okay with admitting that we are still learning as we go...the three of us...together. Maybe that's why it always seems so hard when Reese reaches a new age.

We became parents for the first time when we were 24 and 25 years old, practically babies ourselves by today's parenting norms. Like all first-time parents, we didn't know what we were doing. We read as many books as we could and asked questions of the very few people who were young like we were and going through it, too. We "looked online" for answers and ideas. Now, we'd call it "googling," although that term didn't exist yet when Reese was born. I devoured all the free baby magazines I could sign-up for through my doctor's office. Of course, I asked my mom for advice. She was pretty much the only person I trusted, and I believed everything she told me!

We were a family of three for such a small amount of time, and then this family grew and grew and grew. For fourteen quick months, our first, cozy home was suited just right for Mark, Reese and me (and our good ole pup, Abby). Those early days were easily cherished, probably because they were so incredibly short. We blinked, and they were gone.

You know what happens after the baby days are over. No more diapers, no more sippy cups, no more Baby Einstein DVDs. Suddenly, in came hoodies, Gatorade and The Hunger Games. I once could hold my son's sweet head in one of my hands. His hands, his feet and his entire body would lay across my chest and rest comfortably in my motherly arms. Now, his hands are the same size as mine, but I haven't held them in my own for years. So goes the life of a first born son. He's growing up and no longer needing the literal presence of his mama's hands.

All of these feelings were bombarding me at the cash register. I found it ironic that such a gross-looking birthday cake could cause such a stir of emotions in me. Although it was unexpected, it was a happy surprise. I'm fortunate that I was forced by those bloody bats to reexamine my role as a mother to our first child. What have we been through together? What have we learned? How much has he grown? Where will he go from here?

Now that the party weekend is over, I'm not feeling so overwhelmed by the number on Reese's cake. The kids at our house had a blast watching their teeth turn black and red from that famous cake, chasing each other around, acting sillier than I'd ever seen, and then traipsing through the wet leaves to trick-or-treat as a group of rowdy boys. The next morning, Reese told me that one woman asked their group this annoying question:

"Aren't you kids too old to be trick-or-treating?"

I wish I had thought to address that subject with him before they ventured out for their candy. I told Reese that if it happens again next year, he just has to say, "Nope, we're still just kids."

You know, that's how we'll always see them. As kids. Even when they're 18, or 21 or becoming parents and not having a clue what they're doing. They'll always be kids to us. Our hands will always be here, openly waiting for whenever they're needed again.


EPILOGUE: I used to place all kinds of crazy pressure on myself to bake and decorate my kids' birthday cakes. Long before Pinterest came about, I was competing against nobody but myself to create perfect birthday parties. How annoying of me. Thankfully, I eventually gave myself permission to buy birthday cakes. They are delicious. They are cute. They are gone in five minutes, so I don't feel defeated when the hours I spent working on them are gobbled up by grubby hands and messy faces. Homemade or store-bought, birthday cakes are delightful, even when they're covered in whipped cream-flavored vampire blood.

 

 

 

I'd love for you to find me on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/mamalovesyouandchocolatetoo