Of Babies and Birthdays

When my daughter turned six in January, I endeavored to make her birthday cake myself, for the first time. I wanted to make it for a variety of reasons, the primary reason being the memories of my mom-made cakes as a child. Nearly every one of my childhood birthdays was punctuated by the 9x13 cake in a Pyrex pan, glowing with the appropriate number-candle, unpolished and simple. I wanted to make the cake because it felt like the perfect way to pass a bit of who I am on to her.

So I constructed six dressed-up cake mix layers into three gold doubloon cakes for a girly-pirate birthday party at home. The cake was a hit, and I felt more accomplished than I thought I would. It's the same sort of accomplishment I feel when I pack a special lunch for no important reason, or think up a game on a Sunday afternoon. A special sort of mommy-accomplishment. I never feel it when I buy something expensive or do something extraordinary. This sense of accomplishment is reserved for the beautifully imperfect, the extra-specially normal. The best thing about being a mom, is that these moments are always present, if you watch for them.