Saige turned six today. She woke early, blaring with entitled excitement that was impossible to resist. She wanted her hair in a bun. She wanted enchiladas for dinner. She wanted - well, maybe, possibly, might there be SIX presents because she was SIX YEARS OLD?! She wanted the white rainbow cake she saw at the grocery store (thank all that is holy because we all witnessed what happened the last time I tried to play cake).
We bounced through the day fulfilling wishes. What parent doesn't want to make such reasonable wishes come true? We played with friends and got ice cream and opened presents and brushed the hair of new little princess ponies. I groused at Matt about the strawberry cheesecake he procured before he left for work because what part of "white rainbow cake from cheap grocery store" sounded like weird adultish cake made out of cheese to you? But whatever, we'll make do. I'll make cheese fun. There are always sprinkles. I made enchiladas while they watched a new movie and served them outside on the picnic table as requested.
Leaving the enchilada and joy-filled children at the table for a moment, I pulled the cheesecake (? WTF, Matt) out of the fridge and placed six bright candles in the strawberry topping. I stepped out the door, the cake balanced on one hand, matches clutched in the other and my camera around my neck, to find Saige and Quinn waging a milk-spitting war that had already covered the table and their clothes. Milk dripped from the bun in Saige's hair.
"But now you can't have cake," I said in such a stricken tone that they didn't even protest. They just sat down in the puddle of milk on the picnic table bench.
I guess I'm a really strict mother. We have places in our house that are for children, where couches are for jumping and toys are left strewn and broken things left behind are quietly picked up and thrown away without recrimination. And we have places that are mine and where, for my sanity's sake, everyone is expected to follow my rules. The table rules are non-negotiable. We sit properly. We ask nicely. We try one bite of everything. Anyone who spits, throws, deposits, mashes, hides or otherwise plays with food is DONE. It's important. And that's final.
So we lit the candles and sang happy birthday five times. (Nate really, really likes happy birthday.) Saige blew out the candles and made a wish, but she didn't get a piece of cake. Garrett and Nate had cake and Saige and Quinn did not.
I know some parents will think that I was wrong. That it's cruel. It's possible that they are right. I don't know. Is it more important that Saige has a beautiful memory of her sixth birthday or is it more important that I am consistent and rules are rules? Do we argue that children are children and they get excited and spit milk? Or do we argue that children need limits? That they must understand that no spitting doesn't mean no spitting except on your birthday when I really want to give you cake?
We could argue parenting choices all day and we'd be missing the soft, sapling-green heart of it. If you cut away the bark to the wick, you would see me sitting at the table after bedtime under the champagne light of our dining room chandelier. There is a piece of cheesecake in front of me, but I'm crying too hard to eat it.
I don't always want to be the one who ends the fun and says no cake. But I'm their parent. It's important. And that's final.
((This is so reflective, I find myself needing to say that we had a lovely day. And Saige and Quinn handled their consequences very respectfully. I was really proud. It just struck me as a moment in parenting.))
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