Cake Mistake

     All he asked for was a photo cake.  A picture that he took great care in selecting.  In the photo, Alan  was 10 months old, and  my husband Joe were sitting in a ball pit at a local indoor fun zone.  The photo was monumental if you know Joe, a self proclaimed germifobe who won't drink from a glass outside his  home because he can’t handle the thought of someone else's mouth on it.  I’ve only heard about the nightmarish items that get lost in the ball pit, for that reason alone, this picture exuded a father’s love for his son and the personal fear and disgust Joe had put aside.

Cake One

     On Wednesday I went to the bakery with the photo, selected the cake, and paid for it.  That off my list, everything else was done and I could relax until Saturday. 
     My mother-in-law ran errands on that side of town Friday, I gave her my receipt and asked if she could make the pick-up for me. I swung by her house on Friday afternoon for a cup of coffee.  She told me the cake was in the downstairs fridge.  I smiled just seeing the large white cube taking up the entire shelf. The red and white bakery string was tied so tightly around the box that I couldn’t catch a glimpse.  I’d curb my curiosity until Alan's birthday.

     Saturday afternoon came.  We finished lunch, I went downstairs to the refrigerator, prepared with a knife, cut the string, opened the box, and began to scream.  My sister-in-law came running, peered into the box, and like we were playing a game of Simon Says, her blue eyes widened and her mouth hung open.

     After a minute of screaming at a photo of a Bar Mitzvah boy (and wondering who’s kid it was), I giggled uncontrollably thinking of the expression on the other anonymous mom opening up her cake box to find a photo of my son and husband in a ball bin.  The bakery was closed, I didn’t know whose kid it was, and we had company coming for dessert to celebrate my Alan’s 9^th birthday.  
      I ran outside onto the porch, expecting a panicked mother in a white suit to be running down the block in white patent peep toe platforms with my sheet cake.  But there were just the usuals, a father and son playing catch in the street, skateboarders making their way to the park, and people enjoying the unusually warm December weather.  No crazy moms, just the one standing on her mother-in-laws porch.

     My quick thinking mother-in-law took two prints that were posted up on the breakfront mirror and covered the bar mitzvah boy.  At least the message on the cake was right,  ‘Happy Birthday Alan’, maybe he wouldn’t notice.  It came time to sing happy birthday, my son looked at the cake quizzically, “You know ma, when I said I wanted a picture of me on the cake, that wasn’t what I meant.” 

     I removed the toddler pix that mom was careful to wrap in plastic, and his expression dampened,  his proud chest deflated like air out of an old balloon.  Everyone's first reaction to the cake was the same, wide eyes and dropped jaw.  Here my nine year old stood, tears welling in his eyes as he looked at a stranger in a suit and braces invading his cake.  We sang happy birthday to him, but it may as well have been to  the John Doe surrounded by blue icing flowers. 

     “I want to go home.” Alan whispered to me.

     “I’M GONNA SMASH THAT CAKE IN THEIR FACES TOMORROW!”  Mom said feeling the hurt of her way too serious for his age grandson.  I didn't know who to pray for, the bakery manager or my mother-in-law who was bound to be dragged out in hand cuffs if she didn't get a refund for the cake.

     My ill-timed humor and nervous laughter kicked in,  escaping me as I pictured someone’s Bar Mitzvah dessert table.  Decorated with all different types of cookies, fruit, pies, mousse, Napoleon-Alan and Joey.  My brain cells were howling amongst themselves, it doesn’t get funnier than this!!!

     But there Alan stood, crushed yet standing strong and tall.  The tears in his eyes disappeared.  Now I went into my own mommy panic.  If my nine year old son could be disappointed by a cake, how did he see his future?   If he was older would he have been able to see the comedy in the confection?  In his reality, it was the one thing he asked for, but didn’t get on his birthday. 

    “How could you NOT check the box before you left the store?!”  Joe yelled, more pissed off at the thought that somewhere else an outsider was cutting into his face.

     To add to the confusion of the day, Alan had a friend’s sleepover party to attend that night.          “Maybe you can bring a cake for me tonight.”  He asked.

     “It is your birthday, but it isn’t your party honey.”  I said. 

     “I know that.”  He lied.  A mechanical stare on his face.

      As Alan enjoyed his Saturday night with 20 other boys NOT sleeping, Joe ran to Carvel with the original photo and ordered a cake for Sunday.  I sent out a text to my sisters and sister-in-laws, inviting everyone over for a Birthday redo with pizza and cake.   

     Sunday morning pick up time was 10am, I received a text at 9:24 that Alan had enough.  After rounding up his things and thanking the birthday boy and mother we walked to the car.

     “You know mom,” he began, “all I really wanted was some attention, and now I have to wait a whole year.”

    Until now,  the mix up was funny, I thought it showed a kid how adults make mistakes more often than they believed.  To Alan, that ruined Happy Birthday moment represented his own feelings of substance-not sustenance.  The humor I found just a day ago left me and was replaced by an ache I could not possibly stand a moment longer for my nine year old man.
      Joe took the kids ice skating and I ran to Party City for Pokemon plates, decorations, and party favors.  With the kids out of the way, I could decorate and make party bags. 

     When the children walked in the door at 4, both of their faces lit up. Alan took a few minutes to notice the details, the posters, the plates, and the party bags.  He did a running  jump into my arms and smiled, “Thanks mommy.”

    “Are you happy?”  I asked.

     He nodded.

  “Do you feel special?” 

   “Yes.”  He smiled.

    “Mommies want their children to feel special all of the time.  It shouldn’t take a birthday for that.”
     That night, after the pizza and cake, after running around the house and playing with the cousins, after clean up, showers,and homework, Alan went to bed with a smile on his face.
     I closed the light and tucked him in, Alan said, "Can I have a party next year?"
     "We'll think about it."  I told him before closing the door.
     I now have 364 days before celebrating 'double digits.' To avoid a repeat of the epic birthday blunder, I already had the solution, one which I will never forget....

     Always ask to see the cake before leaving the store.

Birthday- take two.