Why is a birthday cake the only food you can blow on and spit on and everybody rushes to get a piece? - Bobby Kelton

Segundo was SOOOO excited by the prospect of his party that he did not take a nap, which almost always spells the recipe for disaster. But he managed to get through even if at 8 pm he looked at me and said, “Peez, take me upstairs so me go to bed.” Daylight savings time also wreaked havoc in our household – the boys were up late and slept late and you spend all day looking at the clock, thinking, “Well, it’s really only…” when in fact, you *have* to get used to it being a full hour later. Plus, I fell asleep nursing the baby Saturday night at 9, and nothing that I planned to do Saturday night – bake the cake, do the chopping and slicing prep – got done.


Presents were opened, and oohed and aahed over. Seggie got some books, a kite, some Matchbox cars, and the water tower from the Island of Sodor. He was very pleased. Have I mentioned that he loves water towers?


Games were played – H hid the Thomas trains all over the house and then took strangely-angled, super-up-close photos of them, and Primo made up clues for each one, and then the kids had to figure out where they were. Prizes were comic books for the 8-year-olds, and Little Golden Books for the younger kids; I found them on sale at the grocery store for $2.30 apiece, and who wouldn’t rather have a book than a plastic sack full of junk? (Not me! So don’t mind me as I impose my wishes upon a band of impressionable young children…)


A long and involved game of hide-and-seek was also carried out.


I was in the kitchen finishing decorating the blue cake.



Then we threw the kids all outside where they could scream and play and run to their heart’s content while all the grown-ups sucked down massive amounts of wine. In the past year H has begun attending a wine-tasting club here in our neighborhood and is becoming somewhat knowledgeable – and snotty- about wine, so it was like our own little mini wine fest.


The ziti was baked, the salad tossed, the bread sliced. The tables were set: in the dining room for the adults, with my new robin’s-egg-blue cloth and good china (I know, not yet, in this pic); in the kitchen with the everyday Pfaltzgraff and Thomas napkins for the kids. Water glasses were filled, wine replenished, kids rounded up and washed.


Aaaaahhhhhhh. Everyone was HUN-GRY. We all sat down, unfolded napkins, began dishing up food.

And then someone said, “Is that the baby?” Indeed it was. He had awakened from a two-hour nap and wanted to be fed RIGHT NOW. Sigh. I know that he refuses to nurse if it’s too noisy, and it was definitely noisy downstairs. I put my napkin on my plate and went upstairs. Can I wean him yet? Fortunately they saved me some food…


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My mother-in-law was in rare form yesterday. First she said to me in the kitchen as she tore lettuce and washed grapes, “You know, they say that you should eat grapes to flatten your stomach.” Or not give birth to three children, I suppose, with a workaholic husband (and admittedly, a serious chocolate addiction). Then she said to my sister-in-law D (H’s sister), “Aunt F said she had such a nice time talking to you at S’s shower. She thought you’d put on a bit of weight, though.” OK, it’s bad enough Aunt F SAID this, but why oh why would anyone REPEAT it?

And another thing – if a three-year-old is not opening his presents quickly enough for you, please refrain from “helping” him. You’ve got nowhere else you have to get to. And it pisses off his mother big time.