Apparently it's my destiny to fly through parenthood by the seat of my pants. Ooh, there's a surprise. I've never once made a plan that stuck, or visualized a glorious future for myself-in-five-years and watched it blossom into fragrant completion. I just make it up as I go along, but Jackson's birthday this year took the cake.
Cake! Ha ha! The day before his birthday I strolled into the grocery store. There was no one at the cake counter. I rousted a guy from the deli counter who gave me the distinct impression that he'd had a very long and unstimulating day. Deli Guy found Cake Guy in the back, and Cake Guy informed me -- I detected apprehension in his body language, he lowered one shoulder and ducked his chin -- he informed me that that there was no one on duty who could write "Happy Birthday Jackson" in icing on a pre-made cake, and (pugnaciously narrowing his eyes) such a person would not be available until Friday, the day after Jackson's birthday.
The guy had a good read on me. I was steamed. I stalked out to the parking lot and called another branch of the same grocery store. They were so uninvolved as to not even be answering the phone at 5:45 p.m. on a Wednesday. Well, thank Juicy Fruit for the Internet. I remembered that Norm had left a comment on my blog the other day mentioning a not-quite-nearby-but-close-enough bakery that fulfilled last minute requests such as mine. I called them. The girl on the phone gave me ten different options for icing, filling, and what ethnicity stripper I wanted trapped inside, and she promised they'd have it done by noon the next day.
The next morning I was all, Uh, honey? Do you have to work today? Jack looked at me with another in a series of astonished expressions that told me of his long years of having to suffer my shortcomings as a cook, maid, personal assistant, pole dancer, and Democratic party presidential nominee. Jack owns his own company so his daily schedule can accommodate my whimsical disasters. Fortunately, he had anticipated the need to cover for me, and whisked Jackson off to Costco to buy bulk Hebrew National hot dogs, stale buns, and a 300-pack of paper napkins. Why do I keep forgetting Costco exists? Oh, yeah, because I hate it. It's full of crap I don't need and yet every time I go I come home with $200 worth of Orowheat bread and pesticide-encrusted asparagus and 30-packs of hormone-laden skinless chicken breasts that I can't fit into my freezer. I hate Costco.
But whatever, Jack and Jackson picked up the cake while I went to my shrink, wrapped presents, picked up some beer and ice, and made it back in time to greet Jackson's one birthday party guest. ONE kid from Jackson's class was not off spelunking the nasal cavities of Mt. Rushmore, or battling sharks off the Great Barrier Reef, or whatever it is kindergarteners do on vacation. Also, Jackson's one friend could only stay for 45 minutes because his mom had to pick up his sister from horseback riding lesson. Yay, I rule at party planning, too.
Fortunately, we were having the party at the neighborhood pool, and the neighborhood pool was full of neighborhood kids who were only too glad to help us eat hot dogs and Doritos and last-minute cake. It turned out a couple of them had actually been paying attention and showed up with presents for Jackson, too. And then there was me -- "Hmmm," I said to myself, "everyone wants to eat cake now! Uh, I guess that means there ought to be some candles to blow out! " (Why was there was half a box of birthday cake candles in the junk drawer left over from last year? Why did I remember they were there? I guess if you have a brain that works on half capacity, the other half is available to be filled with Willy Wonka. I mean Jesus. I mean Willy Wonka.)
Afterward, we set all the kids loose on the grass with some mild explosives -- you know, those little things that pop when you throw them on the sidewalk, and those other things that explode and shoot confetti -- grocery store-grade fireworks. Then a few of the big kids came back and watched an Argentina vs. Somebody soccer match on TV, and played Nintendo, and left me alone so I could watch "John From Cincinatti" in the bedroom with a shot of tequila and the girl who popped out of the cake. She's trying to earn her masters in social work.
Anyway, there was a huge mess in the living room the next morning, but in the midst of it all sat one bossy six year old demanding that I put "Mr. Robato" on his new iPod Shuffle. Yes, these are the sacrifices I make as a parent. Putting up with my son's relentless affection for Styx. BEFORE I'VE HAD COFFEE.
