The Glowing Edge

Tag: birthdays

  • The Maker’s Spot Cake

    The Maker’s Spot Cake

    All our boys loved the Spot books when they were tiny. And with our history of all-out birthday cakes it was inevitable that one of them — in this case The Maker — should request a “Spot Cake.”

    Go easy on the icing SpotTechnically, it’s the cake Spot baked for his father, but that point was lost on the Maker, who was most keenly interested in the great shining swaths of chocolate frosting capped with green, and the dizzying loops of pink on top. The M&M’s were the best part because he could poke those on — or alternatively, eat them — himself.

    That photo at the top on the far right cracks me up; it’s like he’s saying, “Careful with that thing, Dad, you don’t wanna get it on you.” This after we had to do a full hose-down of both him and the kitchen after the “making of” and before the party.

    Making the Spot Cake

    It was a smashing success in every respect, and one of the few birthday cakes I can lay claim to having orchestrated myself, and I didn’t even use a mix. Those were the days.

  • My Shoes Sparklez!

    So November was my birthday month, all Lisa, all month, it was awesome and I highly recommend it. Especially if you can score summa these.

    My friend (also named Lisa, it’s kismet) had listened to me exclaim whenever I saw the elementary school girls at church with those awesome red glitter Dorothy shoes, or anything else remotely sparkly, which of course they didn’t make when I was a kid, and which I never see in Target or Shoe Show in my size. So! She got on the ol’ interweb and got me my very own disco ball shoes and as soon as I ripped open the box I kicked off my boring but beloved Sauconys and determined to never let the sparklies leave my feet. Except that they were bunching up the sheets, so…

    Still. Hat tip and heel click goin’ out to Lisa Shelden, the Rockin-est!

  • You May Bow to Me

    You May Bow to Me

    Tonight I made fresh blueberry pancakes, link sausages, and sliced cantaloupe. Served with chilled champagne. That’s almost better than birthday cake.

    Image credit: Epsos on Flickr

  • Toast to the Weekend

    This morning I slept late (wow, my kids are growing up and can fix their own cereal and fight quietly!) and woke to infinite sunshine and a swooshy breeze coming in my window. The boys and I listened to tunes (I chose Rocky Horror and Justin Timberlake and they queued up Daughtry and Relient K) and labored over magic-marker birthday cards and other assorted construction-paper and string inventions for their Papa’s birthday. Now the Maker and I are sharing a diet Dr. Pepper: mine’s in a wine glass with three maraschino cherries and his is in an old baby bottle that he found laying around the house. Heh. Here’s to the weekend!

  • collectively-signed office birthday cards

    These are a common corporate challenge. You have to think of something harmless, witty, and inspirational in eight words or less. What I need is some haikus in reserve, because “Happy Birthday!” with a smiley face in the swoop of the Y just doesn’t work. I don’t want to be trite (though I usually am) or snarky (“I have no idea how to talk to someone your age” or “I still haven’t decided why I can’t come to your party”) cause you know, these people aren’t family.

    So today I wrote: “Hope you find time for a little craziness on your birthday. Eat your cake with a spork!”

    I think my popularity will grow.

  • And I Passed!

    Seven a.m., Sunday morning. A freshly-minted seven-year-old tiptoes into my bedroom and hands me an inflated balloon the size of a basketball, whispering (so as not to wake me), “Mom? Can you tie this for me?”

    I wish I had a video of this moment. It was a true test of my parenting skillz.

  • it’s kind of an annual thing

    (overheard in the backseat)

    Boy one: My brother has a birthday on February 14th, Valentine’s Day.
    Boy two: Woah! Every year??

  • Well, it isn’t a dinner PLAN

    I love the day after a birthday.

    Today I came home with great anticipation, and lo, a slice had survived. I’m realistic: I live in a house with four men. I figure I had approximately a one in fifty shot at a second serving of last night’s birthday cake. Well, I played the birthday cake lottery and got a break.

    So today I came home, checked the top of the fridge, and there she was, waiting for me. So I poured a glass of wine (Castaño Monastrell Yecla ’06), peeled the saran wrap off the 9×12 glass baking dish, and ignoring all caustic remarks (possibly related to food/wine pairings?) from the Husband, dug in.

    Life is relatively pleasant, I must say.

  • That’s How It Works

    That’s How It Works

    A conversation with the Maker, age six:

    The Maker: Has it been at least ten years since I was born?
    The Mom: No. It’s been six years since you were born.
    The Maker: Because I’m six?
    The Mom: Yep.
    (silent moment)
    The Maker: Ooohhhh, so THAT’S how it works.

    Image credit: Rainbow Raider on Flickr

  • Ancient; Yea, Crumbling Into Dust


    Tonight the Maker got his new basketball team jersey. He bounced out of the gym and into the car and announced: “My number is 12! One-two!” And he proudly showed off his shiny new shirt, it’s slippery netted surface glinting in the moonlight.

    On the ride home, he expounded on the great good fortune of having received such a perfect number on his jersey. “It’s my age plus my age,” he explained.

    We sighed, reveling in perfection. Then a new thought struck him. “Can I be twelve now, instead of six?” he asked.

    It seemed like a reasonable request, but I prodded for the possible drawbacks. “Sure,” I replied amicably, “but what do you want, now that you’re twelve?”

    He was ready for me. “Six more birthday cakes!” he cried.

    You gotta watch six year olds. They’re tricky.

    As we pulled into the garage, the Maker murmured wistfully, “I wish I had a birthday every single day. I’d have a lot of cakes by now. A thousand! A hundred million!”

    But then he explored the possible drawbacks. “But that’s so many birthdays I’d be dead,” he reasoned, then added solemnly, “or as old as you.”