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.

“It’s for the kids,” he said.

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

During dinner,

“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?