Mary Virginia turned two last weekend, and we had a little party to celebrate. And by “little” I mean little. Because normally when I say “little” I mean that I restrained the guest list to our 20 closest friends and their 400 children.
The theme of this party was “mama just had a baby.” I decorated by intending to hang the birthday bunting I made for her last year, but never actually got around to it. Oh, and Tom mowed the grass.
The kids played in the backyard while the adults tried to sneak potato chips. When they noticed our chips, my sister distracted them by helping them make homemade ice cream in Ziploc bags (similar recipe here). The adults watched skeptically while the kids shook bags of salt and ice and sugar. Then when they were done, the final product was so good we all tried to convince them to scrape a bit of ice cream out of their baggie for Mama, please?
We ate pizza, dug in the dirt, and played in the water — and then we had cake. The one and only thing I made for the party was a giant purple duck cake. Mary Virginia has been obsessively looking at Google image searches of duck cakes for a month now; and purple is her favorite color. She actually asked for a doll-doll duck cake, which I thought was impossible until I just found this on Pinterest. Turns out I failed her and am a terrible mother.
Mary Virginia loved her duck cake. I was really proud of it, too, until I looked back at the pics of my sister’s cakes. Then suddenly I felt the same way I did when I was a kid and I’d discover a page in a coloring book that my sister started but didn’t finish. I’d finish it, planning to pass the work off as my own, but she was so much better at coloring than me; it was dreadfully obvious what she had done and next to her coloring my coloring looked even more rudimentary.
But Mary Virginia didn’t mind, and next time I’ll do a crumb coat.
Blowing out the candles
Confused because the candles were still lit
Everything was going perfectly. The weather was great, there was plenty of food and everyone was in a celebratory spirit.
That is, until Mary Virginia, who had been distracted with her piece of cake, looked up and noticed that her purple duck no longer had a face or a gall bladder. She furrowed her brow and, in a tone usually reserved for, say, catching your best friend making out with your boyfriend, she shouted at my sister: “HEY!!! YOU’RE BREAKIN’ MY CAKE!”
Happy birthday to my darling girl, Mary Virginia. Sleep past 6 a.m. once in a while and I’ll promise to never cut your birthday cake ever again.