Let Them Eat Cake

I suppose I took far too long going to the bathroom, as only one who cares for a preschooler and toddler is wont to do. During that time, Adella went through the mudroom door to the garage, rummaged through the large freezer there, found the remains of her pumpkin-shaped ice cream birthday cake from her party the night before, put the cake on the kitchen table, and was searching for spoons and plates.

“Granma,” she says, “I want some birthday cake for breakfast.”

So I do my grandparent calculations.

Is it harmful? No, not unless you consider a possible brain freeze a hazard.

Would her mother allow it? Probably not. Although, I think, she is my daughter.

Will Adella tell her mother? Undoubtedly. A four-year-old does not yet comprehend the concept that what happens at grandma’s house should stay at grandma’s house.

Will my saying “yes” create future unrealistic expectations? Probably not. Her birthday only comes once a year. I can clearly justify saying “No” if she asks again for such a breakfast next week.

“Sure,” I say.

So we three merrily eat the rest of her pumpkin shaped ice cream birthday cake. At least it’s a dairy product, I rationalize. And it tastes good.

I enjoy the sweet smooth ice cream almost as much as I enjoy the moment. After all, what are grandmothers for if not for unexpected indulgences?