Girl meets cake. Girl LIKES cake.

Also, I have this to say on the general subject of birthdays: you never enjoy a birthday quite so much as when it is your child’s birthday that you are celebrating. Not only because there is no joy sweeter than seeing your child’s face smeared with cake – obviously – but because there is something just inexpressibly heart-swelling about that moment, or that series of moments, somewhere around the anniversary of the day of the birth of your child, when you realize that this is your day, your celebration, the anniversary of the moment that you gave life to her, and she gave new life to you.

Extraordinary.

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Also, it has to be said that, as much she likes cake, WonderBaby would have been just as happy with a block of cheese. In fact, when faced with the dual temptations of candlelit birthday cake and hunk of sharp cheddar, she went for the cheddar.

A cake made entirely of a block of sharp cheddar sounds like a good idea, but it doesn’t hold up well to candles…

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Also, about birthdays? They seem a good reason to throw a party. You know what parties require?

1.) Tidy house.

2.) Tidy house.

3.) Tidy house.

4.) Tidy child.

5.) Tidy self.

6.) Drink wine.

Numbers 1 through 5 can be a challenge, I tell you, especially when child learns the unique pleasure of tossing clothing – hers and yours – and hairbrushes – yours – in toilet. Number 6 smooths out the rough edges, if you can remember where you set down your wine glass amid the (admittedly wonderful) fray of a dozen knee-biters jacked-up on cake.

But I don’t need to tell you that it was all worth it. More than worth it.

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Footnote to last post’s discussion of the Canadian Blog Awards: someone snarked at me about writing about not wanting to campaign for votes, claiming that to do so was just a sneakier way of campaigning. To which I can only say – if some petty Canadian blog award (in which anybody can nominate themselves and vote for themselves, every day, for the fooking love of Elbridge Gerry) provokes such Machiavellian suspicions, then there is something seriously wrong with the world. Sure, I’d like votes. But that post was about my sincere discomfort at the prospect of making a pitch for votes against my friends and their excellent blogs. I don’t want the votes that badly.

If that rings false to you, well, then, bite me.

Her Bad Mother would never, ever exploit her child for the purposes of punctuating a political point. Nor would she employ sloppy alliteration.

And, just to prove that I am not above a little bit of crass self-promotion: if you really, really like this blog, then do go vote for me. But if you do, do, for the love of all that is orange, also click around and acquaint yourself with some other blogs, and maybe spread the votey love around a bit, too.

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Twp more things… there’s someone in the Basement sharing their own story of muscular dystrophy, a variation on the disorder that my nephew has. Please go listen. She’s speaking the words that I have trouble speaking.

And Sunshine Scribe is pushing the karma over at MommyBlogsToronto, and you know that you want some of that.