Two years ago, my sweet little man was born. Two years. He’s growing so quickly, it’s a little shocking. I look at pictures like that and can’t imagine how someone so little and fragile could’ve become the wonderful, smart, holy freaking terror he is just two years later.
We asked The Boy what he wanted to do on his birthday and, despite my many attempts to put Chuck E. Cheese into his head for God knows what masochistic reason, he clearly stated that, “I want to go to Sweet Tomatoes and then Grandma’s house.” So that is what we did. He also stated, very clearly, “I do not like Happy Birthday.” I always hated being sung to, too, so I was more than willing to oblige.
My mom, the husband and I stayed up most of the night making the most horrific looking (and heavenly tasting)Word World cake ever known to man. I will not share the images of “Pig” looking as if he’s attempting to hump “Sheep”, or “Ant” looking like a victim of some God awful crime. Suffice to say, the boy could not figure out who any of the characters were and they all ended up in the trash at the end of the day.
Ignoring my stern warning to avoid it, my slightly sadistic mom family decided to sing happy birthday to him. I have a feeling each year we will get a picture like this one because there will be at least that one reveler that believes the Boy really does enjoy the singing and that I’m just making it up. And each year said reveler will quickly realize that he is wrong. Very wrong.
Somehow, despite the fact that I was the only person not singing. That I was the only person not involved with the whole conspiracy to horrify him, he remained angry with me through the entire meal.
And afterwards.
Apparently, it was my job to control these people and I was doing a horrible, horrible job.
He resorted to yelling at them himself. I think this was something along the lines of, “HEY! BACK OFF!” or maybe it was just, “That’s miiiiiine!”
Grandma, clearly, did not take him seriously.
He enjoyed all of his presents, immensely. He got to ride his new tricycle around grandma and grandpa’s neighborhood with nana, popo and the rest of us in tow. He got to watch the water at the pool. He had enough cake that he darn near passed out the moment we got him into the car seat.
We came home and he laid on my arm, as he usually does before bed, and we talked about the day he was born. We talked about the hospital. We talked about the nurses. He fell asleep after telling me, “I’m two, mommy. I was born and now I’m two.”
Happy birthday, sweet boy. You were born and now you’re two. We love you.
