This one’s for my dear friend, Red. We’ve raised so much together, pal – a little hell here and there, a few glasses, children and from time to time, each other. I wish you luck and laughter in the throes of labor and delivery. I know the possibility of having a little girl makes you nervous…and probably with good reason given some of our own history.
Like the Allende meteorite, my daughter’s birthday streaks through the holidays – a blazing fireball with all the potential of cratering just four days after Christmas. Santa, generous grandparents, bighearted aunts and an uncle set a sky-scraping bar for the mom-come-party-planner in me. Before I can clear away the scraps of ripped up red and green wrappings and strewn streamers of ribbon, December 29th is knocking impatiently at the front door and threatening to ring my bell, too. Kids are crashing from candy cane highs, and parents palpitate anxiously as they stare down the barrel of another week without school. Add to this balance hang, Little Syd’s swiftly shifting opinions and expectations regarding how she should be celebrated, and I usually find myself in a modern day fairytale, trying to summon some she-roics and bibbidi-bobbidi-boo birthday magic.
This year, to mark her majesty’s milestone of four years, I called girlfriends of all ages from across the land for costuming, cupcakes and karaoke – a tulle and tunes twist to the tired-but-tried-and-true princess theme. Given the complicated calendaring and overwhelming obligations of the season, I had to practically stalk would-be guests to gather enough support to officially declare this event more than a glorified playdate. Finally after a few days of determined phoning, texting and emailing, I confirmed a party of five, and turned my attention to the feast, flair and fanfare for the fete, wishing all along for a wand and some pixie dust.
First, I planned a light lunch for the lasses: warmed ham biscuits with a poppy seed and mustard butter (or just plain mayonnaise for the less adventurous), fresh fruit and sparkling lemonade. Wanting an elegant flourish, I climbed on the counter to retrieve a stack of hand painted porcelain dessert plates which had collected a good bit of dust in their decade of neglect. I grew nostalgic for my grandmother, remembering our tea parties and how she served chicken salad sandwiches and Charles Chips to me on her own gold leafed bone china. I loved how she trusted and treated me like a lady – every day, not just on special occasions – even when I was little. Per usual I hadn’t left enough time to go waltzing wistfully through the wilderness of my memories, so I jumped down with plates in hand, nearly breaking every last one of them when I landed (read: not very ladylike, neither dainty nor demure, really shouldn’t be trusted with heirlooms at any age, etc.).
Snapping back to reality (or at least my version of it), I hurriedly bedazzled the dining room table with crystal, white candles, crisp linens and lilies (admitted layovers from holiday hostessing). I stepped back to take in the tablescape and half-expected the teacups to turn a tango with the candelabra. However, I bumped into Little Syd who, with hands on her hips, immediately tut-tutted and tsk-tsked and threw wrinkles into this regal plan unfolding – reminding me with the subtlety of a hammer that it was her birthday, not mine. She pretty-please asked me for some princess-y paper plates and pink plastic forks instead. A few flashbacks of spilled juice, broken glass and water rings in the wood later, I fully surrendered form(al) to function. I also realized that I seem to expect messiness and chaos (and get it) whereas my grandmother expected decorum and grace (and got it). Again, with this little birthday bash closing in on me, I couldn’t pursue my thoughts about self-fulfilling prophecies and today’s little princesses, but I filed this in the Be A Better Parent manila folder in my mind.
With menu and table set, I shifted gears to the party’s activity, secretly wishing for the simplicity of pin the tail on the donkey or the ease of Chuck E. Cheese’s. Instead, I dragged down a basket brimming with glitz and shine – some gowns gifted, some handed down – all of scratchy, shimmery, sequined and synthetic fabrics complete with worn velcro and shot elastic. I itched and hitched just looking at the gobs of glam. Next I plugged in the karaoke machine and tested the microphone (maybe I even donned Syd’s pink boa and gave my Gloria Gaynor a go…and perhaps a little Dusty Springfield, while no one was looking or listening, of course). After Windex-ing my daughter’s new full-length mirror, I crossed “Entertainment” off the mental party list running in my brain.
This left cupcakes (and very little time before I was to turn into the proverbial pumpkin). Earlier, while I was checking out at Target with a handful of paper products and plasticware in every shade of rose, blush and bashful, I spied miniature Disney purchase-me-NOW princesses dangling at child’s eye level in the impulse buy section. But it was I, not my daughter, who grabbed two Cinderellas, left my cart to hold my place, and bounced like some Girl, Interrupted from one line to the next looking for enough dolls for each guest. With fists full of four Cinderellas, one Aurora, and one Ariel, I rushed home to begin the Cupcake Wars in my kitchen, a battle between me and my imagination.
I raided the cupboard and cabinets for sugary embellishments and food coloring, and I stripped the helpless heroines of their teeny-tiny rubber dresses. I jammed a Cinderella into an upside down cupcake that I hoped to transform into a gown fit for a ball, but alas, the doll was a touch too tall. If this really were the Food Network’s take on a bakeoff, the camera would zoom in on me pressing palm to brow, bleep a flood of obscenities, pan to the ticking-tocking time bomb of a clock, and a voice might say, “We really hate to see this happen to someone who has worked so hard. I am not sure even a fairy godmother could turn this around.”
Sweating and seemingly circling back to the I Will Survive theme of previous famed sound-checking, I sheared down a mini-cake on the fly and fastened it to the regular cake with a flick and flounce of frosting. Thankfully, the four Cinderellas played nice and settled into their spongy yellow tiers. To match the color of their bustiers, I swirled a few drops of blue into the buttercream and then thickly swept the sweetness over the now double-deckers. I recruited Sir Jonathan with his giant salmon-catching paws to cast candy pearls onto the skirts (and bit my perfectionist tongue as I watched wide-eyed his Big Bang spray of sprinkles). The last two princesses called for petal pink frocks and more studded styling, and once iced and detailed, took their places next to the four Cindys.
I surveyed the scene on the silver tray and laughed at the five pretty and prim royals, and that siren Ariel, who is Little Syd’s favorite. With a shock of flaming hair and a seashell bikini, my daughter’s celebratory confection looked like a stripper bursting from a birthday cake. Accidentally perfect…a showgirl for my showgirl. When Little Syd saw the cupcake queens-to-be, she gasped. She approved. She lit up with wild delight. And in that moment, that split-second, happily ever after seemed within reach. For both of us. Right up until the damsels-turned-divas birthday guests started frantically fighting over the lone Aurora.