My son turns one tomorrow. I can scarcely believe it. But it occurs to me as I write this that – even though all the presents are arriving with his name on them – this is not his celebration; this is ours.

He can have all the remaining birthdays – but this first one means we get to breath a sigh of relief and say, ‘We made it!’ We got through the sleepless nights of the first three months, we survived the transition to solids, we’ve seen him crawl and fall and soon he’ll be walking and we almost feel like real parents now.

It’s fast, huh, that first year. For me, and for most Dad’s I think, it really starts with the drive home from the hospital. Still the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done. It was my first fatherly responsibility. I drove slowly and cursed those who passed me – including a nana with zimmer frame and a gang of racing snails. I glanced frequently and with furrowed brow into the rearview mirror which gave me a good look, not at the road behind, but at my wife and son in the backseat.

It has been a year of questions; constant, sometimes impatient questions: is he sleeping enough, should we turn him, is he eating enough, is he eating too much, what the hell are those red patches, do we immunize, is that vomiting normal?

And finally, happily, we feel at peace with it all. I think that’s the real celebration tomorrow. We made it through the first year … just 30 or so to go before he makes the call to have us placed in a rest home.

There will be more questions, but the most important one that I have to answer in the next 24 hours is: what kind of cake shall I bake. My wife has already vetoed the All Black jersey I had planned. A truck, a train, a plane? And chocolate or carrot or something else?

I think I’ll stick with a safe option. Banana cake carefully baked in a circular shape with ‘Theo’ written on top and single candle for Mum and I to blow out together.

You can get the recipe here.

-Steve

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