It Will Get Easier...A Lesson Passed on over Frozen Custard

With my youngest son turning five recently, I've begun to worry that I might lose some of my street cred with the moms of really young kids. Maybe you'll start to think I'm out of touch with the issues that mamas of babies and toddlers face. That my days in those dirty diaper trenches are over, so I can't relate to you anymore. I'm here to tell you that although my days are different now, I have not forgotten what it was like to live as a stay at home mom with very, very young children, all needing me at one time, all crying, all wanting to be fed, or changed, or read to, or played with, or driven somewhere, or you know how it goes. My friends and I who are moving past the baby stage look back and wonder how we did it. We laugh, our eyes glaze over, and we say to each other, "How did we ever survive?"

A few weeks ago, I was out to lunch with Marshall. We had a quick bite at Culver's after I picked him up from preschool. I had spent the morning alone, shopping and running errands without anyone tugging on my leg or asking for candy in the check-out lane. I'm sure I look like a weirdo when I walk through Target and talk to all the moms with babies, as I feel lost without any of mine with me. I stop and smile at every single baby who is strolled past me. Everywhere. I can't help it. So, after a few hours of eyeing all the babies that were not mine, I was so happy to in fact have my own child back in my company.

Over lunch, Marshall and I talked about his friends at school, what his snack was for the day, who the special helper was, and what he wanted to do when we went back home. We had a big kid conversation. It was back and forth...quiet...interesting. I might even go as far as to say it was easy. We were munching on that greasy goodness that only comes from Culver's, while a mother and her three young children were sitting at the table behind us. Her meal, with a baby girl and two toddler boys, was far from easy. I must have heard her direct her children to do something or stop doing something fifty times.

Stop touching your brother.

Eat your lunch.

Don't climb under the table.

Stop blowing bubbles with your straw.

Sit up nicely.

DO NOT EAT food off the floor.

Please don't squeeze the baby's face.

Would you just eat?

Leave him alone.

I'm serious...stop!

If you don't eat, then you won't have any ice cream.

Quit pushing each other.

 

Why are you acting this way?

 

Would you please just listen to me?

As the meal went on, I could hear her frustrations escalating. I could hear the kids becoming more antsy. I was wondering why she was lingering in the restaurant, why she wasn't picking them up and leaving. They weren't bothering me, because I have been that mom a million times, but I could tell that she was upset. I once walked out of Red Robin with our food going straight into take-out boxes, because four whining kids couldn't handle the wait. These kids had finished their meals and their ice cream sundaes, yet they were still sitting there, seeming to torture their mama. Maybe this was her first outing in days, her only chance to have a hot meal that she didn't have to prepare herself, so she was trying to make the best of it.

Marshall and I finished our creamy frozen custard and began packing up our table. I had already made up my mind to stop to say a kind word to the mom on my way out, but what I saw when I turned around really surprised me. I saw the reason why that mom hadn't already left the restaurant, even though her children were clearly pushing her over the edge. Her husband had come in late to meet them during his lunch break. He was wearing his work clothes, a mechanic's uniform, and he was just beginning to eat his meal when I said this to the young family:

"It will get easier."

That mother, all tired and ready to pull her hair out, let her frazzled face and frustrations relax for a minute. I saw the relief in her eyes when she gazed up at me and my big boy with hope. She asked with a desperate inflection in her voice, "Really?"

We talked for a few minutes, and I found out that her children were ages 4,3, and 1, the exact ages that my first three were at one point. There's something about learning that another mother is traveling a similar path on parenting that creates a connection for me. I explained to her that I had been that mom, too. My kids drove me crazy in restaurants....in the library...at the store. Wherever. Now they go to school, and I'm alone sometimes during the day. She started to unload more to me, that her oldest will start school next year, and that she hopes it will make life a little easier. I assured her that it would. I congratulated the couple on their cute family. I wished them luck, encouraged them to keep taking the kids out, and we went on our way.

On our way out to the car, one of my best friends in the whole world called me. It was perfect timing. She has four kids as well, and boy, were we in the deep mama trenches together for many years. She and I would call each other day after day, week after week, saying, "How did our moms do this? Will it ever get easier?" She's the friend I called the time I left Red Robin in tears, swearing I would NEVER take the kids out by myself again. I called her from every parking lot in town where my kids threw fits. She would lift me up, bring me back to reality, and I would do the same for her. I told her about the young mom in Culver's. We giggled at how we were that mom, and it really wasn't that long ago.

So, to all of my readers with wee ones:

I am so glad that you're here! I know I joke about how much the world has changed since I first became a mom--like how we had to develop film, but most of it is still the same. Feelings, struggles, insecurities. Milestones, accomplishments, celebrations. Those aspects of motherhood are constant. If my 92 year old grandmother can reminisce and empathize with modern moms, then so can a woman who hasn't given birth in this decade.

Thank you for continuing to read this blog! Thank you for trusting me through this journey. If you know someone who could use encouragement through parenthood, I would be honored for you to pass along my site.

Please, share your feelings here in the comments, any time. It would be so cool to have a dialogue start that might even lead to another post.


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The Mama Can't Go Down

We experienced one of those weekends around here that I anticipate with dread as soon as school is back in session. I know it will happen; it's always just a matter of when. More than half the people in the house were really sick. I will not go into the gruesome details, but the germy culprit was the terrible stomach flu that attacks our house every.single.year.

Every year, without fail, it rips through here like a tornado, leaving kids and adults moaning and groaning, ruining plans and shifting the washing machine into overdrive. One by one, the members of my house fell victim to this strong virus.

Lucky for us, this time around, I wasn't hit by the virus at the same time as everyone else. As Mark was lying in bed, he whispered, "I'm so glad you're not sick, because the mama can't go down!"

I was busy being caretaker, hopping from room to room, dropping off saltines and ginger ale. Changing sheets, cleaning buckets, wiping foreheads. Rubbing backs, telling my little sweets that everything would be alright, when in all reality, I had no idea when it would be over. We moms don't really know when the fevers will break or how long the suffering will last. We just keep wishing that it will be over soon, that we can take it all away from our children. Watching my kids writhe in pain and misery really forced me to focus on their health.

For a few moments, I retreated to the family room couch to take a break. I flipped on the TV in an attempt to drown out the worry I had been feeling for my babies. While I laid there, with the snow falling outside my window, I counted my blessings for the 362 days of full health that my family does experience during the remainder of the year. Yes, we suffer (and I mean suffer) through the stomach flu every winter, but overall, my children are in wonderful shape. I am ever-so-thankful for their health.

One by one, just as quickly as that mean virus had knocked them down, they have been picking themselves back up again. The children have been bouncing back to wrestling, yelling and laughing. Of course, I'm still on edge, wondering if or when the last two will fall. That means one more kid and me. If you don't hear from me on Thursday, you'll know that the mama did, in fact, go down.



The Professional Stomach Flu Survival Kit
 

 

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Broccoli Rice Casserole

Every family has those favorite dishes we feel must grace our holiday tables in order to make the day complete. I've told you that Thanksgiving is the holiday I love the very most. It's about family and food and companionship. We talk and laugh and relax...and eat! When my brothers and I were growing up, we always made two stops on Thanksgiving Day. We would spend the daytime hours with my dad's side of the family, and then in the evening, we would pop over to see my mom's family for a quick sandwich, slice of pie, and a bowl of my aunt's famous macaroni salad.

Until I was a young adult, my paternal grandmother prepared a traditional and hearty meal every Thanksgiving, always set at 2 p.m.  She was a very tiny woman with a quiet grace who opened her home and heart for the love of her family. I'd like to share one of the recipes that she used to make for our Thanksgiving dinner. It has been thirteen years since she passed away, but every time that I smell this dish bubbling away in the oven, I fondly remember all of the years we spent gathered around my grandma's table.

Broccoli Rice Casserole

Ingredients:

1/2 stick of margarine (or butter)
1 T. minced onions (from the spice rack)
1 1/2 c. water
10 oz. chopped frozen broccoli
1 1/2 c. raw Minute Rice
1 can of Campbell's Cheddar Cheese soup
1 can of Cream of Mushroom soup
1 can of French's Fried Onions (the kind you put on green bean casserole)

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and spray a casserole dish with non-stick spray. (2 qt. round or 11x7 inches).

2. In a medium pot, bring water, butter and minced onions to a boil. Add the frozen broccoli and bring to a boil again.

3. Add the Minute Rice. Stir, cover and remove from heat. Let stand for 5 minutes.

4. Add the 2 cans of soup and stir all together until combined.

5. Spread the broccoli/rice mixture into the pan. Bake for 30 minutes. Top with fried onions and bake for 5 more.

HELPFUL TIP: For weeknight dinners, I've been making this dish with California blend, which gives it an added sweetness from the carrots. Otherwise, I like it just as it is for Thanksgiving, Easter and baby showers. It just reminds me of Grandma.


I know you have some favorite family recipes that remind you of holiday dinners or desserts. Would you leave me a comment to tell me about them?

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I Forgot What Time my Last Child was Born

This week, my youngest child turned five-years-old. A mix of emotions has run steadily through my heart and my body, taking me from amazement at how quickly he has grown, to pride for all that he knows, to appreciation for the gift he has been to our family.

On the morning of his birthday, as we gathered on the couch to watch him open a few gifts, one of our other children asked us what time Marshall was born. Horrified at myself that I wasn't able to rattle off the number, I gasped, smiled as I tried to regain my composure and then turned to my husband. I calmly said, "Let's ask Dad."

The kids all laughed and responded with, "He doesn't know either. He told us to ask you."

How is it possible that a mom had let such an important detail escape her memory? Particularly, this mom. We wait and wait and wait for nine long months for the very second when a living, breathing, squirming human being will be brought forth from our bodies and laid onto our chests. We will exhale with pain, exhaustion, relief and jubilation. A tiny person will no longer be hidden inside of our wombs, which are basically churning pots of the unknown. Instead, that new life will be free for the world to see and hold and ENJOY! That's a big moment. A gigantic moment. A moment that somehow, when we started reminiscing about my fourth child on his fifth birthday, I could not recall.

Although the exact hour and minute escaped me that morning, I knew that I could easily discover his birth time. It is printed on his birth announcement and on the backs of photographs and in his first year calendar. Then there was my favorite place where I knew I could find it. It is the place where I documented it with the utmost care; where it is cherished and recorded with love. It is in the extremely personal story I composed just a few days after my son's birth.

I would love to share that story with you here today, in honor of my last baby's 5th birthday. He really is not a baby anymore--he makes sure to tell me all the time! It has served its purpose to jog my memory of the exact time of day that our little surprise was laughed into the world, but it is so much more than a record. It's intimate. It captures a moment in time for my family that I can never recreate. So much has changed in our home over the past five years, but what a special way to glance back to our past, to the exact minutes when our third son, our final child, was born.

"Laughed into the World"

Written in the middle of November in 2009 and then shared with my friends and family all over the world.

This little baby boy sure has caused a lot of drama the past nine months, but his birth was a very fitting end to a stressful pregnancy. Aside from other complications along the way, many people don't know that I went into preterm labor at 33 weeks. I spent the night in the hospital, and I went home taking medication every four hours and confined to bed and the couch. Three weeks and one false alarm later, I was taken off bed rest and given permission to resume regular activity. I made it to 36 weeks with baby boy still safely tucked away inside. I definitely had contractions daily, but nothing happened. Each night I went to sleep wondering if that night was going to be the night baby would arrive. Trixie had come five weeks early, and Chip's birth was very quick as well, so I was constantly on edge. I was dilating more, and at 38 weeks I was four cm. Doctor told me she would induce me at 39 weeks plus one day, to save my sanity.

I had cried in her office due to all the stress of wondering what I would do with all the kids if I went into labor in the middle of the night. With the plan in place, I was ready. I was set to be induced on a Thursday at 7 a.m. On the Monday before, I thought I was in labor. My good friend, Karen, rushed over to watch the kids, Mark's mom drove to town, and we went to the hospital. Things stalled after a couple of hours, and even though I was dilated to five cm, I was forced to go home due to a law in our state. (Nothing can be done to encourage labor before 39 weeks). I was just two days away from that milestone, plus I was already scheduled to be induced, but I had to go home. I was totally disappointed, but Mark took me out to dinner, and baby stayed inside until the big day.

With Chip's planned induction at 38 weeks, Pitocin was started at 7 a.m., and he was born at 10:14. I was sure this one would go even faster, especially since I had been moving along for weeks. Nope, nothing happened for the first five hours.

I started Pitocin at 8, and got my epidural by 11, and things were still going slowly. Doctor had predicted baby would be born by 12:45, which I thought was a late estimate. I was totally figuring he would be born by 10. That just goes to show that every labor is different.

Doctor came by at 12:40 p.m., and we joked that baby wasn't going to make her initial projection. She said two more hours, tops. I texted some good friends at 1:05, saying that it was going very slowly, and I didn't know when he was going to come. I was still only five cm. (My phone had been in the closet, and I had missed several calls and texts from friends who were also sure I would have delivered hours earlier). At 1:15, ten minutes after I had told everyone that nothing was happening, it was time to push! My doctor had to come running back over from her office (thankfully, it's across the street). I pushed three times through one contraction, waited a minute for the next one, and started pushing again.

In the middle of that next push, the doctor made me laugh, and my baby's head emerged! She told me to keep laughing, because I was going to laugh that baby out. The nurses, doctor, Mark, and I all kept on laughing, and out he came. It was hilarious. When he was born at 1:27 p.m., he opened his eyes right away and started sucking his thumb when she laid him on my stomach. It was an incredible birth. I didn't even begin to break a sweat, it was over so fast. We just talked to him and cuddled him on my stomach for several minutes, until it was time to weigh him and have him examined by the nurses.

We didn't have a name for him yet, so we talked about it a little bit each hour but never decided anything until about 4:30 that afternoon. In the meantime, we had lunch and took a nap before telling anyone that he was born. Our moms had each called by then, and we decided it was time to spread the news that he was born. Everyone had been worried since he had seemed so eager to be born seven weeks early and then wasn't coming. I felt badly for everyone waiting at home, not knowing, but we so enjoyed the few hours together after his birth, that it was just a beautiful time with Mark and Baby Boy.

Our family is now complete. I still can't believe we have four kids. When I see them all together in one place, I am just amazed. Whenever a new child is added, life quickly reaches that point when you can't remember a time without him or her. I am already there. Of course, Chip seems like a giant boy now, no longer a baby. That always happens as well! Reese and Trixie's babyhood seems like a lifetime ago, and they are now the big, big brother and sister who go off to school on the bus. Mark is taking a week vacation to help take care of everyone. It will be so great to have everyone at home together. We are spending Thanksgiving at home, since it will be too early to travel with little Marshall. My friend, Theresa, told me to enjoy the "babymoon." I had never heard that term before, but we are definitely in babymoon mode now!

Thanks to all of you for your prayers along the way and congratulations messages now. We are so thankful for all of the friends we have, not only in several states across the U.S., but also in several countries around the world.

Although I don't have a carefully crafted baby book for our fourth child, I do have this very special gift for Marshall. It is found in my written words. They carefully describe the events and my emotions surrounding his very momentous arrival! I would like to encourage all of you, no matter what stage of motherhood you are in, to record your birth story. Obviously, doing it right after the birth is awesome, because our minds are so full of what has just happened to us and the emotions are raw! When I went back to read this story today, I had forgotten so many of the little details that I am thankful that I did record. For instance, I didn't remember that he started sucking his thumb just seconds after he was born. However, it's never too late to write your own birth story. Enlist the help of anyone who was there with you. Husbands, moms, friends! We know those birthing rooms are busting at the seams these days.

Keep them to yourself or share them with the world. I know I'd love to read each and every one of your stories. I will be taking my own advice and writing my other three birth stories, not to be shared on the blog. You already know so much about me that one of my accounts about the very private act of childbirth is probably enough for you to handle.

Marshall was surprised when he awoke on his fifth birthday without a mustache or a deeper voice (something he was certain came with turning five). He was also convinced that he would no longer be attending preschool but would be jumping straight to kindergarten. I truly enjoyed my day alone with him. We had peanut butter sandwiches on a blanket in our living room, and I realized that it would be the last time he would be home with just me on his birthday. Another one of those roller coaster moments of motherhood, for sure.

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Coffee Mugs Take Over but Still Teach Life Lessons

As I've collected items for my kitchen over the years, I have had to learn to rid my cabinets of older ones to make room for the new. I say learn, because it is not easy for me to remove these items which actually are memories to me. Because I spend so much of my time in my kitchen, the tools I use become a part of me. When my favorite casserole dish, which was a gift from our wedding shower, came crashing to the floor, I felt a true sadness as I slid it from the dustpan into the trash. In that dish was where I crafted our first lasagnas and pans of stuffed green peppers as newlyweds. When the electric pan that Mark bought me to use during our expat stay in Japan finally stopped working, I was heartbroken. That piece of equipment was where I scrambled eggs for our babies and sautéed Yakisoba, my favorite Japanese noodle dish that I just can never recreate in the States.

This past summer, I realized I had accumulated quite a collection of coffee mugs. One of them had broken many times, and I finally had to let it go. It was a mug which my aunt had given to me for my college graduation. It was my first "Teacher Mug." I held it near and dear to my heart for thirteen years, thinking of my aunt each time I sipped my Sleepy Time tea from it. When that cherished mug was finally gone, I decided it might be time to go through my mug shelf and give it a face lift. It was actually quite liberating.

We all have our favorite mugs, right? The ones we use each morning for our coffee or tea. We have ones we save for guests that match our dinnerware. We have mugs that we never touch which linger in the back of the shelves, simply collecting dust. For some reason, those just never make it into the rotation. Those were the ones that were easy for me to donate.

Then came the sentimental mugs. The ones that had been taking up my cabinets for ten plus years. Obviously, I never needed all of them at once, and they were making it difficult to close my cabinet doors. Something needed to be done. How did this emotionally-attached, "I wanna keep everything that has ever meant anything to me" mama decide which mugs to keep and which to donate? One afternoon, I talked it over with my own mom for some tips, and I began the process.

I had four mugs from our favorite family vacation to Guam. They were identical to each other. I kept one. I had two mugs from the time I went to see my favorite Broadway show with my best Japanese friend. Again, identical. I kept one. I had many mugs with my kiddos' faces on them. Automatic keepers, of course. One or two were starting to chip. Those became pencil holders. I had a really tall, funky, cool mug from when I took the kids to their first Broadway show. It spells Supercalifragilisticespialidoscious in a rainbow of colors. It's fantastic! Into Trixie's room it went to store whatever she wants. A mug from the kids that says "Best Dad in the History of the World...Ever" required no contemplation. Through the shelves I went, making wise decisions on what on Earth to do with all of these stinkin' coffee mugs.

Then came the one that I knew I would never be able to give away. It's a sleek black coffee mug that my parents presented to me in celebration after one night of high school. I haven't kept it because of the event that surrounded it (Honor Society inductions). Obviously, who I was in high school was just that, high school. I kept it because of the words that are written on it and how much they still ring true to what I believe. When I drink from it, I read the words that my parents carefully chose for me that night. I was only sixteen, but the inspiration I felt from the words on a coffee mug (with balloons and candy attached) are still affecting me.

The words are beginning to fade, probably from many years of wear and washing. Please read them with care, and maybe you will be inspired today, too!

Excellence can be attained if you...

Care more than others think is wise...

Risk more than others think is safe...

Dream more than others think is practical...

Expect more than others think is possible.

Do you have sentimental attachments to items in your kitchen or home? How long have you kept them? I just realized I've had this honor society mug for exactly 20 years! It has moved all over the world with me. Thanks, Mom and Dad. I am sure you had no idea it would become such an important part of my home.

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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.

 

 

 

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