Cupcake

     On Saturday, Clara stood on a kitchen chair, watching me ice 36 cupcakes.  I'd gotten three kinds of icing: bright pink, yellow and blue.  They came in a can similar to the Cheese Whiz can, and each had four different nozzle attachments for making designs.
     The naked cupcakes had been enticing; the lure of the iced cupcakes could almost not be borne.
    "Hey, no touching!" I reminded Clara as she crouched over a particularly icing-laden one at the end of the tray.  Her little fingers danced around the outside of the wrapper, and then formed a hovering cocoon over the frosted part.
     "NO," I said, scooting her chair back a little.  The pattern on the front of her T-shirt peeked out the top of the scooped neck on her fancy dress.  I'd gotten the dress at Goodwill.  It was supposed to look "Victorian," in keeping with her birthday party's Mary Poppins theme.  There was a hat too, but heaven knew where she'd ditched that.
     As guests arrived, other little girls in party dresses flitted over to watch the decorating.  Sophie's hair was done in sausage curls.  Hazel wore a pretty pastel frock and Sharlene had on a flat hat and sash over her dress that read: "Votes for Women" (The mother of Mary Poppins' charges was a suffragette).
    Sophie instructed me to make a blue flower surrounded by pink frosting on one cupcake.  As I was obliging with this request, Clara stealthily pulled the cupcake on which she'd been obsessing closer to herself.  Ever so gently-- almost as though it were an accident, as though she'd misjudged the space between her lips and the frosting--she dipped her head towards it.  I saw all this in my periphery, and glanced over in time to see her little tongue eroding the ridge of bright blue icing on her upper lip.
     "Okay, everybody go play," I said, picking up the tray and placing it on the counter.  They all did, but Clara came wandering back a few minutes later.
     "Mommy, come play with me," she said, gazing up at me sorrowfully.
     "Honey, I have to cook.  Besides, there are a million kids here to play with."  Sometimes I forget Clara is only two.  I expect her to always go and independently find someone or something to play with, but she is not of an age to do so.  Later I feel guilty for treating her like she's four.  And I think of how sad I'll feel when she's no longer a sweet-faced, bumbling little toddler.
     "Mommy.  Huggy."
     I picked her up and put her on one hip while I iced with my free hand.  The tendons on the side of my arm strained awkwardly while I pressed my index finger hard into the icing can's nozzle.
    After awhile Clara let me put her down and ran off to play.  People talked and ate cucumber and cream cheese, egg salad and swiss, and peanut butter and jelly tea sandwiches.  Everyone had a Shirley Temple or two.  The kids got into power struggles and drew with sidewalk chalk on butcher paper.  Finally it was time to sing Happy Birthday.
     Clara came and stood next to me while everyone sang, smiling and clasping her hands a little, as though she wanted to give a speech but wasn't sure what to say.  Then the expression on her face turned hammy, like she might suddenly break into a celebratory jig or something.
     I gave her her cupcake afterwards. She ate all the frosting off it and took exactly one bite of cake.
     Later, as the guests were leaving and I was putting her into her booster seat for a proper lunch, she professed she wanted people to sing Happy Birthday to her again.
    "Sorry, it's a one-time thing," I explained, "But I'll sing it later to you if you want." I snapped the booster seat tray over her lap and continued, "Okay, so what was your favorite part of your birthday party?"
    Her answer was quick and unequivocal: "Cupcakes!"