Hellobee

I’ve never been the type of mama who puts a great deal of energy into planning life’s “big moments.” When Will’s beautiful, messy, curly baby hair grew too chaotic to handle, I asked Mr. M to cut it while Will ate his breakfast one morning. I watched our little one’s blonde-tipped babyhood fall in small clumps and tiny wisps to the floor, and I looked to my partner and said, “I’m so happy and so sad, for no reason at all and for every reason in the book.” And he cut on, and I mourned and celebrated simultaneously, diligently aware that I was deep in one of the “big moments,” but completely separate from the design and timing of this moment.

Before I could fully grasp the gravity of it, time had moved on and I was staring at the face of my beautiful, inquisitive, happy toddler who was grateful to be free of the long bangs that constantly troubled him as he searched for rocks and splashed in rain puddles on our evening walks. And, perhaps because it was quite the opposite of premeditated, I had no time to wallow, no room to worry, no room in my heart to do anything but be grateful for the passing of time and the growth of the sweet human who had made me a mama.

And yet, when it came time to plan, craft, celebrate Will’s first birthday, I eschewed my typical laissez-faire ways and deliberately considered each detail – the gravitas of my son graduating to his second revolution around the sun, and my own progress from new mama to slightly-less-new mama was something I could physically feel. I was shedding my first mama skin, giving way to a more flexible, more patient skin – one that would carry me through the trying toddler years. (Let’s hope!) It was a moment I felt, I believed, I knew, should be celebrated.

All photos in this post were taken by our amazingly talented friend, Alicia Griffin, of Ag Images

So, a celebration was planned. I dove head-first into Pinterest (Mr. Milk: “are you ‘pinning’ things? who are you?”) and I developed detailed lists of what and how much and what kind and what colors. What came forth from these efforts was a picnic themed, red, white, and yellow party for nearly fifty of our friends and family.

Fifty people. Our village.

A village?! I scoffed before I had Will. A village! I screamed in my head, desperate for support and grace one week into mamahood. A village! I breathed out like a sigh of relief each and every time one of them gave me an hour to run, or an evening with my dearest friends, or a series of shoulders to rest on as I poured out my fears of inadequacy.

A village. In the end, the only thing that mattered about this party I painstakingly planned. This village patiently handed me streamer after streamer, in alternating colors, as I meticulously hung them over our fireplace for the perfect first birthday cake moment I could envision in my head. This village went out of their way to load pounds of fried chicken into their car – chicken for this village, as a tiny token of our gratitude for a full year of serving as our load bearing wall, our steel frame support for our new, tiny, overwhelmed, happy family. (Chicken?! You’re thinking, you doubter of the glory that is fried chicken covered in soy garlic sauce heaven. Chicken! I declare in response – it’s that good.)

This village that carved out their entire afternoon on a Sunday in August to acknowledge all that we had done together to nurture one tiny little human.

.  .  .  .  .

We had welcomed grandparents, aunts, uncles, daycare family, and even the cousins from Pennsylvania. We had devoured the mojitos and snacks. We were surrounded by a sea of blue thumbs, skin reluctant to fully relinquish the remnants of Will’s birthday guestbook. It was time.

I pulled the tiny three layer cake – the second one I baked after we ate and enjoyed the practice one a few days before – from the refrigerator. A simple white cake with even simpler white icing, frosted imperfectly on purpose, natch. I placed my partner’s preferred candle – a giant 1, screaming in my face, forcing me to note the full year of life that had passed so, so quickly – in the center of the cake.

People were gathering, and I heard the sounds of my parents admonishing Will to “oh no! leave the banner on there! It says Will is one!” followed by the tell-tale sound of ripping paper and chuckles from our village. I hurriedly jabbed the wax letters – W I L L – into the cake in front of the larger candle and lit everything I could.

And as the song began, I made my way with Mr. M to Will, carrying our child’s first plate of baked sugar. I placed the cake in front of Will and stepped back – and time froze. In a tiny echo, in and around me, I could hear the familiar strains of the birthday song, beating in tune to my heart. I was a part of the joy but I was apart, watching from the ceiling, from the back of the room, from the window, this scene of pure joy, of pure love, of a sea of voices swelling together in celebration of one small person. One little boy into whom each and every person – each one watching his sweet face absorb the room – had given energy, selfless acts of kindness, and endless affection.

I was immobilized, simultaneously running laps around the room, engulfed in the moment. This big, huge, important milestone moment where my son, the little boy who made me into the pink-striped tigress, was held up by a village. Where I was held up by this village and I knew without these people, I could not have endured.

As William tentatively took small bites of his cake and began to offer icing-covered hands and crumbs to those around him, I remembered all the emotion of the moment he was born, and I repeated the same thought I had said then, and said since, a million times over:

I love him, I love him so much.