Awaiting the Party

by 2ndyearmom

My hands are still cold from washing the red grapes and blueberries. They glisten on bright dishtowels on the counter, waiting their role as the centerpiece of your carrot cake tomorrow.

I’m anxious and excited.

We bought you bunches of helium balloons for the end of the driveway and for festive flourishes around the cabin.  The orbs of color drew you all afternoon. You played with their magic movements all afternoon, tangling the strings into a maypole of color.

We got all the party supplies while you slept

You loved waking up like this.

I finished your carrot cake with altitude adjustments and it came out beautifully.  The pancake mixture has been sifted, the butter laid out to soften. I do need to figure out how to thin the frosting so it will stretch a little farther (ah, HA! add milk).

Spoils of Kitchen Helpers

Three dozen eggs sit waiting their transformation into French omelets which you will help me crack. Jars of mushrooms, green onions, red peppers and grated cheese sit beside them to customize.

I’ve cut the aluminum tops off the six pack of bubbles, slicing my finger along the way.  The sponge scabbards and swords sit in a wicker basket for your friends to wield and attack the bubbles.

My outfit sits outside my closet and I’ll only need to choose yours in the hours we have before your guests arrive.

It will be a small party, but it’s a big party to me.

Our first formal party for you and Dad and I have tried to make it more about you than about us.

Your favorite things: blue gatorade, blueberries, balloons, butter, the friends you know, not just friends we know.

We’ve even given you practice blowing out birthday candles.

Yesterday we started asking you, “Finn, how old are you?”

Proudly you look up and say, “I twos.”

Yesterday, your true birthday, was crowned with an evening at Saddles Restaurant and Bar where we heard a local band play some Adele. They singer, who knows us, called you over to enjoy the familiar tunes.  In your white polo shirt and blue jeans you drew many fans.  I could barely keep up as you dashed between lounge chairs, through the gift shop and lurching for the acoustic guitar.

The tambourine and the beauty of the musicians drew you. I was watching you.

You’ve become so strong on your own.

I’ve scarely soaked up the reality that this regular rhythm of writing for you will soon be over.

Tomorrow night will be my last post.


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