happy Christ the King's birthday.

Ya, I know. The Feast of Christ the King was Sunday, and His birthday is Christmas. Two separate events. However. I felt like trying to be one of those amazing moms who celebrate the liturgical year with their children. And all the amazing moms bake crown cakes on the Feast of Christ the King. Sweet. I can make a cake. Joseph likes cakes! He'll totally get it, and I'll feel like I made our faith real to him. Yep.

Yeah, they're really "getting it."

I had plans to make a truly grand crown cake--as in, one that resembled a crown. But reality struck and we ended up with a sheet cake with a crown outline via mini M&Ms (artfully designed by Sean). Eh, not bad, right?

And it was all going so well until Joseph said:

"So, when is Christ the King coming? Is it his berf-day?"

No no, Joe, we're celebrating the kingship of Christ. His birthday is Christmas.

"But ... when is He coming to eat the cake?"

Um, we saw him this morning at Mass, remember? And we're celebrating how he is our King. Sometimes you can celebrate something with a cake even if it's not a birthday.

Joe is confused.

"I want to get out the hats."

Sigh. Ok.

And so at 5:30 p.m., our household consisted of:

- Joe, continuing to yammer incessantly about cake/crowns/hats/party paraphernalia
- Amby, wailing and falling to pieces because he got up at 5:00 a.m. and hates when I'm more than six inches out of his reach,
- Me, realizing that I failed to buy food for dinner because in addition to the cake, I spent Saturday cooking an early Thanksgiving feast for 10 of my in-laws and Sunday providing stroller-pushing, zipper-pulling, affirmation-giving help to my postpartum sister who desperately needed to find a schnazzy dress to wear to her husband's upcoming office Christmas party, and who wants to face an Ann Taylor dressing alone when you're accompanied by a three month old and wearing a nursing camisole? NOBODY.

So.

At 5:30 p.m. we sat down, donned our hats, and ate the cake for dinner.

Who am I to deny a kid a party when he's got a perfectly good berf-day cake sitting in his kitchen.

Next year, we'll work on liturgical distinctions.