My son turned one this week. Sigh. Last year he was just this little meatloaf we cuddled and posed with his big sister and our giant bulldog (naturally). I decided it would be nice to throw him a little party. After all, we have birthday parties for his big sister (precedent) plus with his birthday in the Christmas season, it made sense to tie it in with some holiday cheer for family and friends (two birds, one stone).
It all sounded easy enough at the time. There would be food, drink, family, kids and cake. I struggled a bit with theme since he isn’t really crazy for anything aside from his hot sitter. My husband suggested I arrange to have her jump out of a cake. So in between Googling divorce attorneys I Googled some cake ideas and narrowed it down to this sweet Hungry Caterpillar cake or the show stopping Cookie Monster cupcakes. I thought of the oohs and aahs and perhaps a small applause as I bask in the glow of the one candle and my domestic godessness.
Of course, I am not @TheNextMartha, but I had myself convinced I could pull this all off. Until I got a call last Friday. Could I start a new job on Monday? Um, sure. Could I start an hour and a half earlier than I presently start? Oh - that depends on whether business casual means pajamas and a pony tail. It doesn't? Hmm. I will try.
I did try. I somewhat succeeded. The children went feral, my husband went missing (soccer) and I drank enough coffee to throw off the commodities trading for the week.
And now it is the day before his birthday party and guess what I have done? Zip. Nada. We are out of milk, toilet paper and apparently, dignity. I think my family ate mandarin oranges for supper. Canned mandarin oranges. Our house looks like it was ransacked by gypsies who were seeking refuge from a pack of rabid mongoose who in turn, tracked them to our home and tore it apart trying to find them. Even hot sitter is looking a little weathered (you have to look closely).
Now I am exhausted. Another long day ahead and I wonder what the heck I can pull out of my hat to save the day and leave everyone wondering “How the hell does she do it?” rather than “How old do you think the sitter is?”