Cake, cake, CAKE!

I’ve written before about my little guy and his passions.  He loves completely, violently and to the exclusion of everything else when he's focused.  He loves many things.  Mama.  Dolly.  Torturing his sister.  Body slamming Daddy.  And cake.  If James was in charge, cake would be his dietary staple and he would eat it every day. 

He discovered cake on his first birthday.  We held his party at KidCity and while the other children played James remained planted in my lap.  He reacted to my one attempt to get him into the ball pit as though I was trying to toss him in a snake pit so there he sat, contentedly ensconced with Mama right up until cake time.

I had never given him cake before but it was his birthday and his cake, so I sat him up in the high chair and let him go for it.  That’s when his world changed.  

Chatting and serving people Charles and I continued to top him up until we realised that we’d both been feeding him and he’d managed to make it through three rather large slices.  Plus, he was jonesing for more. 

Cake was something worth fighting for.  Two nights later at his birthday dinner when the cake came out he obviously knew what it was and had to be physically restrained from grabbing the whole thing and shovelling it directly into his maw.  

His excitement was palpable and, again, his contentment was evinced by the way his eyes slowly glazed over as he ate.  James was chasing the dragon baby-style.

From there cake has become the secret addiction that rules his world.  His first word was cake.  On that day I’d forgotten that I’d left some cake remains on a platter on the bench.  James was in the kitchen making urgent little grunting noises that indicated that he wanted something badly.  In my head I knew the cake was stale and gross so it never even occurred to me that that’s what he was after. 

As his urgency increased his whole body became involved in conveying to me just how badly he wanted the object of his desire.  Up on his tiptoes, reaching as high as he could, his whole body quivered with the combined effort of maintaining balance whilst attempting to communicate with his obviously retarded mother.  Finally he screwed up all his will and shouted, “CAKE!”

It was such a monumental effort that I really wished I could give it to him.  He’d probably burned off all the calories it contained just trying to get me to understand him. 

Since then the flow of cake to James has been carefully regulated.  If you ask him what he wants for lunch or dinner you invariably get a hopeful “cake?”  But mostly he’s resigned to a relatively cake-free existence.  All that goes out the window though when actual cake baking takes place…

Charlotte started school on Monday and, as part of her ongoing campaign to win friends, she decided she wanted to make cupcakes for the whole class on Valentine’s Day.  The first batch came out on Saturday while Daddy and Charlotte were out.  The whole time I was in the kitchen making them James stood behind me squaking “cake?  Cake?  CAKE?” magpie-style.

Fresh from the oven he immediately increased his pitch, urgency and the speed of repetition.  I informed him that he would have to eat lunch first.  Now, how about some sandwiches?

“No tanks, just cake,” he replied, holding his hand out and opening and closing it rapidly.

I finally caved and let him have his cake.  He did not walk a step from his place of victory – he just sat right down there just outside the kitchen and quietly ate his undecorated prize.  

Five minutes later as I loaded up the washing machine a small redheaded blur zoomed past me up the hallway giggling maniacally.  I discovered him ensconced in his bedroom with a second cupcake in his hands, buried up to his nose in it, trying to consume as much as possible before he was busted.  Little addict.