Young Ladrinka is 9!

There’s a lot that I could tell you about my son, MY BABY! turning 9.  I could tell you how I had a hard time getting pregnant with him, how 9/11 was with a not-quite 3 month old, how being a mother the second time around changed me, or how my child turning 9 is profound for me because I was 9 when my family left the Soviet Union, so my memories of being 9 are quite sharp.

I could also tell you about the party that we had for my son a week or so before his birthday, on the last day of school, when I took all the boys from his class to see The Karate Kid and how shocked I was when after the movie they all started to re-enact their favorite kicking scenes, as opposed to discussing how “Kung Fu is life” and the importance of inner peace, and how despite a birthday party that lasted over five hours and included a  movie and pizza and ice cream followed by playing baseball, my son’s favorite moment was when Husbandrinka told one of his friends that he was acting like an IDIOT.

Because there is nothing funnier than an adult telling a kid that he’s an  idiot.  Precious memories, people.  You should be taking notes.

But I’m not going to go into any of that, because I want to talk about something that’s really important.

The birthday cake.

For Young Ladrinka’s birthday, I decided to go to my local Baskin Robbins and order an ice cream cake.  Now, for the past five years, I’ve gotten him a Carvel ice cream cake, but I have to order that at a supermarket and for four years I asked them to write Happy Birthday Victor! and it always came back Happy Birthday “Victor”! Like Victor wasn’t his real name and we just agreed to call him that for convenience.

The first year, I was like, okay, anyone can make a mistake, the second year, I was like “huh, lightning really can strike twice!”  The third year, I was “I wonder if they’ll—YES! YES, THEY DID!!” The fourth year I was “No, they can’t possibly–” And the fifth year I asked them, when I ordered it, to please not put quotes around the name.  The woman looked at me like I was crazy–either for not wanting the quotes or for assuming that she’s put them on in the first place.  I got the cake that I wanted, but I was emotionally exhausted by the experience, five years in the making.

So last Sunday, one day before Young Ladrinka’s birthday, I went to my local Baskin Robbins.

Now, I don’t know about the Baskin Robbins where you are, but the ones in NYC seem to have merged with Dunkin’ Donuts in some kind of a corporate takeover against America’s health.  Which means that any time that you go into the store, there is a huge line of hungrys waiting.

Like last Sunday.

Because I was ordering a cake, as opposed to getting an America Runs on Dunkin’ coffee, I went to the head of the line and announced my intentions.

No one was impressed.

“You have to wait in line,” the guy in charge told me.

I waited in line.  And then it was my turn.

“I’d still like to order a cake!” I announced.

He looked at me.

“A cake?” he asked, as though I asked for 99 virgins to go, please, and throw in some blondes this time, if you don’t mind.

“Yes,” I confirmed, feeling confident in my order.

“Hold on,” he said.  And went to consult with another vice-president of Dunkin.

After a few minutes, during which the donut dispensing was suspended to everyone in the store, and I was sure that the world would stop spinning on its axis, they both approached me.

“The manager is not here to take your order. Can you come back in the morning?” They told me.

I began to panic.

“In the morning? Can’t you take the order now? How early in the morning? I have things to do! It’s  my son’s birthday. God, it’s hot outside.”

“The manager will be here early.  At 6:30,” they told me.

“Okay. I’ll be here at 7, will she be here?”

“Probably.”

* * *

The next morning, I reported to Baskin Robbins and after the mandatory donut line wait, ordered a cake.

I scribbled Happy Birthday Victor on a piece of paper and wanting to be helpful, added “vanilla and chocolate ice cream”.

“We can’t fit all this on the cake,” the manager told me.

I reassured her that I did not need the ice cream flavors inscribed on the cake, made arrangements to pick it up at 5, and was merrily on my way!

At 5 pm, I reported back to pick up the cake.  By 5:30, I was at the head of the line.  “I’m here for the cake!” I announced, proudly presenting my receipt.

The manager was long gone, and I was with my Sunday guy again.

“Wait here!” he said and reached for his iPhone.  Then he spoke in a foreign language, fast, sneaking peeks at me.  Having firmed up his plans for Jihad, he ended the call.

“Here is your cake!” he told me.  I looked at it. It was indeed, my cake,  but it did not have an inscription.  Which is the whole point of a birthday cake.

“You want writing on it?” he asked.  I nodded, too weak to talk.

After a few more phone calls, he got to work.

A better mother would have protested.  A better mother would have insisted that her baby’s birthday cake have proper spelling.  That mother is obviously not a blogger, because all I could think was INSTANT POST!

Happy bithday, “Young Ladrinka”!

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