For my granddaughter’s first birthday, I made her smash cake myself—not because I am a baker (I am not), but because I wanted to do it. I wanted to be the one to create something special just for her, even if it wasn’t perfect. The cake was set in front of a gorgeous Disney-themed backdrop, everything staged and ready for what I imagined would be a sweet, magical moment.
But she had other plans.
She cried through the entire staging.
Not the smiling, frosting-covered, picture-perfect moment I had pictured in my mind. Just tears, confusion, and a strong opinion about the whole situation. Meanwhile, I stood there somewhere between laughing and trying to salvage the moment, realizing that one-year-olds do not care about aesthetics or themes or carefully chosen decorations.
They care about their mom. Their comfort. And whether or not this whole thing is over yet.
And still—somehow—it was perfect.
Because that is what love looks like too. Not controlled. Not curated. Not always cooperative. Just present in the middle of whatever unfolds.
I’ve decided something in all of this: I am committed to making smash cakes for each of my grandkids, even though I am not a baker. Even though they may cry. Even though the frosting may not be smooth and the photos may not go as planned.
Because it’s not really about the cake.
It’s about showing up.
It’s about saying, you are worth my effort, even if I’m learning as I go.
“Let all that you do be done in love.” — 1 Corinthians 16:14
So maybe the Disney backdrop didn’t matter as much as I thought it would. Maybe the tears will be part of the story we laugh about later. And maybe the real memory isn’t the perfect smash cake photo—but the fact that she was loved enough for someone to try.
And I think that’s a tradition worth keeping.