A very belated birthday post, and a story

My little boy turned five last month. It was a fun birthday celebration.

We threw him a party with a bunch of his young friends and his sweet cousins, too. The little kids were adorable, practically vibrating with excitement over party games like the pinata and pin-the-beak-on-the-owl.

Yes, it was an Owl Party. A rather Pinterest-y theme?
Kind of.

In fact, the only reason I suggested it to him was so I could make a cake that actually looked like something.

I'm tooting my own horn, but I do think it was my best-looking cake yet. (It didn't have much competition.) 

It helps that I picked something ridiculously simple. 

I didn't even pipe eyes -- those are just halved gluten-free Oreos (GF because 3/4 of the kids who came to the party don't eat wheat).

I was so amused and delighted by how our guests were so hard at work at this game. The six-and-

under set take birthday parties mighty seriously, it seems.

Also, they came with adorable cards they had drawn. 

One little girl had a card with two stick-like figures, one with a flowing veil on the head. She explained, "This is Noah, and Noah's wife." 

So precious.

Making his birthday cupcakes in their matching Nana-made aprons.

Who can resist a smooching selfie?

(Okay, maybe it's just me?)

He definitely seems very "five" to me now -- older and wiser than he did a year ago.

A few weeks before his birthday, I was trying to do some Lenten/Spring cleaning. which as usual, devolved into "let's at least get the laundry put away." So I washed and dried and folded and ironed and put away every piece of clothing, every towel, and every piece of bedding in the house. 

Except there was hardly enough room in the boys' dresser for all their clothes.

"This is crazy!" I said. "You have too many clothes! Look, your dresser is stuffed! Noah, we need to give some of these away!" 

Poor Noah's face crumpled and he said "but these are my clothes!" He began to cry a very real and heartbreaking cry, as he felt the threat of his mother actually barging into his life and taking away his possessions.

I was startled that he was expressing an attachment to clothing (toys or books, I could have predicted), but I completely related to the problem. I pulled him into my lap and put my arms around him and stroked his hair. I told him as simply and as gently as I could that there were other children who didn't have enough clothes, and he had more than he needed.

I reminded him that the nice ladies at St. Joe's take donations of things and then sell them at the store where people who don't have a lot of money can buy them. Wouldn't he like to help give clothes to the poor?

So he agreed to my idea of picking out one pair of pants and two shirts that he thought another little boy might like. (I tried not to say "that you don't like anymore" as I try to keep in mind, after reading a reflection once from the CFRs, that giving the poor our castoffs is an insult to them. We should be like Mary Magdalene and be willing to anoint them with lavish oil, without counting the cost).

He willingly chose the items, and then picked an extra pair of pants and shirt, too. 

The sweetest part though, was he got out a piece of paper and a pencil and asked me how to spell the following:

"Dear St. Joe's ladies, 

Please help a poor child find these pants and tell them they are from Noah.

Love, Noah"

He is a very special little boy.