My Son Turned 19 And I Didn’t Make Him A Birthday Cake

Every year I make my kids’ birthday cakes myself. Until I don’t.

Since last November, I’ve been learning a new dance.

It’s the delicate, careful extraction of my scaffolding around my young adult son. Last November, he turned 18. He graduated high school. He began college. He’s got a steady job. He’s got a partner.

He’s learning to do life on his own. He’s learning to manage money, time, and health.

Much like when he learned to ride a bike, I’ve stepped alongside him until the wobbling evened out and he rode on his own, without much risk of falling.

Did he fall after that? Sure, lots of times, once down the side of a mountain. I couldn’t protect him from every accident.

But from those falls he learned to be cautious and less reckless.

And I was there to help him up.

Now someone else is stepping in first.

Now they come first.

Every year for the last fourteen years, I’ve made my children’s birthday cakes myself. They give me some grand design idea, and I’ll do my best to attempt it.

My attempts are usually comical, sometimes OK but often absurd, and while they taste great, they don’t always come out looking as I envisioned in my mind. They sometimes become running jokes in our family for years.

This year, when I asked my oldest son what kind of cake he wanted for his 19th birthday, he paused and stopped what he was doing. He looked somewhat nervous as he responded, “Well, actually, I wanted to talk to you about that. Would it be… okay if J [his partner] makes my cake?”

I immediately felt a rush of emotions.

Thrilled, that he had a partner who wanted to do that for him. Relieved, that that was one task off my plate. And, to be honest, a twinge of sadness. Just a bit.

It literally had never occurred to me until that moment that someday other people would take the front row in my children’s lives, and those people would be the ones baking or buying them a birthday cake. Their partners, best friends, roommates.

Not their mom.

What kind of mother-in-law am I going to be?

I responded enthusiastically, and it wasn’t fake! Since the car accident and my rather slow recovery, I was genuinely relieved that a pretty big task was suddenly off my to-do list. I really, really like my son’s partner, and I knew they would do an amazing job on his cake. I definitely wanted to give them space to give him that gift.

This change of plans made me deliberate thoughtfully on some different aspects of the birthday planning. He had asked me to make his favorite meal for dinner, and many times when I make this meal (meatloaf and mashed potatoes), I’ll make a banana pudding with it.

And yet, I contemplated in the aisle of the grocery store, if I make something sweet it may be seen as competing with J’s cake.

Not gonna do it.

I think often about how to include his partner and make them feel welcome in our home and in our family. I remember having had in-laws who made me feel like they viewed me as competition somehow, and how weird and stressful that was.

A good person in my son’s life who loves him is always a good thing to me. I’m going to support that person because supporting them is supporting my son.

I’ve watched as gradually I’m no longer the first person he turns to, his partner is. And they have been right there for him, every time.

While being a mother-in-law is presumably still years down the road, I still want to be respectful of my kids’ relationships, their partners, and their space and right to prioritize other people over me.

There’s enough love to go around.

The cake was phenomenal!

J showed up with a big, beautiful Kiromi cake. Clearly lovingly made, the design was super cute, and it tasted amazing (that kind of cake you grab a fork and nibble on later standing up in the kitchen).

I held the cake. I watched as my son, with his partner closely by his side, blew out his candles.

We all cheered.

Can’t it all be this simple?

I know the years will bring far more challenging situations than who’s baking his birthday cake. I know I am bound to mess up, hurt their feelings, get my feelings hurt, and that everything won’t be so simple.

I hope they’ll be forgiving as I learn.

One day at a time, one decision at a time, we’ll figure it out as we go as long as we lead with love, and I keep my ego in check.

Pulling one of the last pieces of scaffolding away, I pause and remember the cakes of birthdays past, of awful fondant and frosting that dyed our teeth and hands, of wobbly towers of layers. I give thanks for having had the opportunity to celebrate my son for those years, and I give thanks that he has someone in his life equally excited to celebrate him through butter, sugar, eggs, milk, and frosting.

There is certainly more than enough love to go around.

My name is Melissa Corrigan, and I’m a freelance writer/thought sharer/philosopher in coastal Virginia. I am a mom, a wife, a veteran, and so much more. I deeply enjoy sharing my thoughts and receiving feedback that sparks genuine, respectful conversation.

If you like my content, please consider subscribing… click here and follow along as I explore the themes of parenting, political ideologies, religious deconstruction, life as an adoptee, and LGBT allyship and family.

If you love my work, consider buying me a coffee?