A. Marie Silver

A. Marie Silver

Stealing Spiderman

Last week my husband celebrated the second anniversary of his 21st birthday. Unlike his first celebration of this glorious occasion, this one wasn’t as exciting….depending on one’s definition of exciting.

My husband didn’t want much for his birthday which is a good thing because…well..he didn’t get much. I mean I love him and stuff but he went and had his birthday in the middle of a school week AND on our busiest night of the week which didn’t leave many options for a happy celebration. I mean, what was he thinking? It’s not all about him. Next year he needs to check with me before scheduling his birthday.

The one thing he did ask for was an ice cream cake for his birthday.

“It’s for the kids,” he said.

The four year old, however, was very specific that Daddy had to have a Spiderman birthday cake.

And I thought her request was super cute. After I got the six year old on the school bus and dropped the other two kids off at preschool I ran to Walmart because I needed a thermometer. I left with birthday cards for my husband, candles for the cake, and an ice cream cake with a blue-icing web and a plastic Spiderman center piece with super-creepy eyes that light up when you flip a switch. I got all the way home when I realized the only thing I didn’t buy was the thermometer.

I unloaded the cake in the freezer, went back to Walmart to buy the thermometer and left the store with Band-Aides because the four year old used all of the old ones on her dolls, Ziplock freezer bags, and 20 gallons of kerosene.

Guess what I forgot? Again.

After that I ran to the preschool to pick the girls up. A couple of hours later it was time for my son to get off the bus and that’s when chaos ensued.

First it was getting every one to eat their dinner. Then it was getting everyone to go to the bathroom. The six year old only wanted to watch StoryBots. The four year old was obsessed about the Spiderman birthday cake. She kept asking, “Mommy. Is it time to put Daddy in the high chair and sing Happy Birthday to him yet?” 

And the one year old was sitting on the floor of the living room, playing peek-a-boo with a frisby.

During dinner,

I formulated our plan of attack for the rest of the evening.

“So here’s what we’re going to do,” I said. “I’ll leave the baby and the six year old with you and I’ll take the four year old to soccer practice. Then I’ll meet you guys at the Boy Scouts meeting, take the baby and the four year old home. When you guys get home, we can have cake.”

Husband: Don’t you want to stay and watch your son get his first badge?

Me: I gave birth to him. Isn’t that enough?

The truth is, I really did want to stay and watch him get his badge but it was too close to bedtime for the baby and there would’ve been no peace for anyone if we tried to make her stay up past her bedtime.

Birthday cake was served at 8:30 that evening when everyone was exhausted.

And that’s when things got crazy.

The six year old took one look at the Spiderman cake and remembered that he had one just like it when he was four. He pointed to the centerpiece and said, “Daddy? That’s my Spiderman toy.”

Husband: That’s not your Spiderman toy, Bobo.

“Yes it is. Why did you take my Spiderman toy?” He reached for the centerpiece. 

My husband pushed his hand away. “No. No. You don’t grab. Cake first, then Spiderman.

And then it happened. The pouty face appeared. The six year old’s chin quivered then came the waterworks. He buried his head inside of his hands and sobbed at the table.

“Bobo,” the four year old said. “That’s not your toy. That’s Daddy’s toy and I’m going to play with it after cake.”

“No,” my husband said. “Bobo can play with the Spiderman but,” he turned to Bobo, “cake first. Okay, Buddy?”

More tears.

“Stop crying!” The four year old yelled.

“Don’t yell at him,” my husband said.

“What kind of father are you?” I asked. “How could you steal your six year old’s Spiderman toy?” Because I’m the voice of reason in all of this. That and I didn’t want to be left out of the fight.

Meanwhile there’s the one year old who’s sitting in her high chair – up past her bedtime.

She’s clearly traumatized by all of the drama.

Twenty minutes later, everyone finished their crying and their ice cream cake. Daddy and Bobo made up.

And the four year old fell asleep on the sofa.

If it was this chaotic this year, what’s going to happen next year when the one year old is walking?

Thanks for shopping Snark, Sass, & Sarcasm! Have a great week!

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A. Marie Smith

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