The First Birthday

I decided that since she didn't know how her foot from her face, a fancy affair would be wasted on our one-year old. We had been to a first birthday party at one of those fancy playgyms a few months prior and the guest of honor slept soundly through the first three-quarters of it. When he finally woke up, unceremoniously, to a rousing edition of "Let's Get it Started" with disco lights, he had such an enormous tantrum, his grandmother had to take him to the (peppy) employee break room to calm him down. Our daughter was the only other infant invitee, so she frolicked in the ball pit by her lonesome and the parents of the birthday boy snapped away, stealing pictures of OUR daughter enjoying THEIR son's pricey party. I wondered how they'd photoshop that one.

So, it would be a no muss, no fuss birthday. Then I got an email from my oldest friend, a Martha Stewart reincarnate with 2 kids, who now lives out west. "Have you gotten the stuff for Z's party yet?"

What "stuff?" Stuff? I wasn't aware stuff was required. I thought we'd sing "Happy Birthday" while she threw yams across the room and then we'd all eat turkey and down beers while I begged people not to partake in seconds.

I asked and she answered.

"it's called a smash cake made especially for one year olds to smash and grab and stuff in the face. you need it for the pictures that you should be taking. that and the frilly, glitzy one year old birthday hat."

No response from me. Then another email from her...

"And a banner. Those cute ones you hang above the highchair. You'll need it for the pictures you should be taking."

Note to self: I think someone thinks I should be taking more pictures of my baby. Just b/c I don't send pictures out to my distribution list every 3 weeks, doesn't mean we aren't taking any. Just that we aren't bothering to upload them. Like ever.

Also, what the hell is this smash cake? How is it different than a regular cake. I scoured the internet. No luck. Really, you try. I called three NYC bakeries. They had no clue what I was talking about. I would have emailed my friend again, but a dittering mother must reserve her "help me" emails for real emergencies. The smash cake conundrum was bordering one, but not quite there. So, I decided on a cupcake (a small cake she can smash, hurl, maybe even eat). But 4 days before the big non-event, I realized that in addition to a cupcake not really being a cake, we could probably use the extra doughage a proper cake would provide for leftovers for the new parent-friends! Ta-da! But, wait, not if she smashed her face into it. So, for the four nights before Thanksgiving, I'd turn to Ben and ask, "Cake or cupcake." And every night he'd grunt "cupcake" and turn the volume up on whatever we were watching.

Let her eat cupcake.

Then the day before, as I was leaving my husband's office, on my way to the cupcake place to pick up my decision (er, her birthday treat), his employee Jessica asked me the question: "Are you ready for Zoe's birthday?" Yes, I'm ready. "Did you get one of those Number 1 candles?"

Fuck me.

As the entire city of New York raced around to pick up their preordered turkeys, pick up more celery for their stove-top assisted stuffing, make their car, train, plane home, I went hunting for those oversized number 1 candles.

And hoped, the whole time that it wasn't too big for the fucking cupcake.

Buying Thanksgiving Leftovers

Our Thanksgiving was already pretty untraditional: it was 100% store-bought (stay away from Zabar's brandied chestnut stuffing--tastes like gizzard pate with a liquored kick). And our guests were a pair of lesbians from the Maine woods. (Realizing this sounds like the beginning of Deliverance 2010--not a holiday meal.)

It was our first Thanksgiving with baby (coincidentally, our little turkey's first birthday, but I'll get to that later). And I had invited the new parent-friends over for Thanksgiving leftovers the next day. Then, the day before Thanksgiving it hit me: We may not have enough FOR leftovers. I panicked. I made my husband promise not to gorge. He scoffed. At the big meal, I politely suggested to my mother-in-law that, just maybe, she didn't need a third helping of mashed potatoes. She correctly ignored me. Not only was I counting MY calories--but everyone else's.

I couldn't wait for Black Friday to come. Not so I could go hunting for for half-priced electronics, but stale pumpkin pie. And so, the next morning, with more than half a 13 lb. turkey sitting in the fridge, and a pissed-off husband and slightly annoyed mothers-in-law at home, I trekked to Whole Foods to buy leftovers. Not surprisingly, the place was desolate.

I blame my heritage: being a Jew, we are preternaturally concerned with food and forever anxious there won't be enough. But logic also intervened. Since, we only had six guests coming over (two under a year-old), I limited my purchases to a better stuffing and three anxiety-reducing slices of white meat. Unfortunately, they had an herb crust--our bird did not--so I wiped them clean with paper towels and scattered the new slices amongst the authentic leftovers and hoped no one noticed. When all was said done and eaten, we still had almost a half bird left after the new parent-friends came and went, and, being a Jew--preternaturally obsessed with food going bad and paranoid about giving anyone a food-bourne disease, I threw that half a bird out.

Oy.