The Oh So Feisty One’s ninth birthday is here — and that means it’s time to make the cupcakes.

Homemade cupcakes for the classroom birthday party? Who’s kidding whom? It’s a rare mom in Park Slope who makes those cupcakes from scratch anymore.

Smartmom’s friend JollyBeMom is that rare mom — but then again, she’s a professional baker whose luscious chocolate cupcakes are to die for. Not every mom can bake a cake that looks like Chartes Cathedral.

But like everything else in the Slopeosphere, cupcakes are fraught with socio/political and psychological meaning.

They have, in fact, become synonymous with good mothering.

Trouble is, for the vast majority of moms — those who work full-time, parent full-time, volunteer full-time or juggle it all — classroom birthday parties mean Duncan Hines Devil’s Food Cake mix, Betty Crocker frosting, and a smattering of red dye #5 sprinkles, prepared in a kitchen still stacked with dirty dinner dishes. Gross.

Betty Crocker frosting is so sickeningly sweet that five out of five dentists don’t recommend it, even for their patients who like lousy frosting.

But it’s so easy.

To say that Smartmom was in denial about this year’s cupcakes would be a vast understatement. So busy was she working on an assignment for Dumb Editor that there were no cupcakes dancing in her head — until the day before the party.

When, she wondered, would she have time to make those cupcakes?

Smartmom tried to reach Hepcat at the Edgy Computer Startup, but he gave her a quick “gottagorightnowbye” and said he’d call her right back.

Desperate, Smartmom called Harried Harriet, who regaled Smartmom with tales of what happened last year.

“At 2:30 on the day of the party, I was hurtling down Eighth Avenue in my Volvo with cupcakes on the passenger seat.” She was stopped by cop in front of Saint Saviour’s church (God help her), who accused her of bypassing a school bus that was discharging kids.

“He threatened to give me a ticket. I didn’t say anything about the cupcakes — how could I?”

Heart racing and slightly traumatized, Harried Harriet arrived at the school with seconds to spare. “It was fairly ironic, when you think about it: I had endangered the lives of children on a school bus in order to get to my daughter’s classroom in time to deliver cupcakes.”

There’s got to be another way. So Smartmom called Designer Mom, who’s always good for a time-saving parenting tip. “I get mine at Two Little Red Hens,” she said. “I can’t make them as well as they do. Plus, I’ve got better things to do.”

But then her voice changed and she said with barely concealed bitterness: “But last year, Thrifty Mom looked at them scornfully and said, ‘Jeez that must have cost you a bundle.’”

Indeed, there is a stigma attached to bringing bakery-made cupcakes to class. In private school, it’s downright unthinkable, according to Smartmom’s emissaries from Berkeley Carroll, where the rule seems to be: the more money a parent spends on tuition, the more time she is expected to spend baking.

Thank goodness OSFO and Teen Spirit went to public schools, where it is acceptable to use a cake mix — or even bring cupcakes from Costco.

Late Thursday afternoon, Smartmom decided once and for all that she was going to get OSFO’s cupcakes at Two Little Red Hens, but when Smartmom broke the news, OSFO looked stricken. She loves to spread that canned Betty Crocker frosting — high in transfats — onto hot, just-baked cupcakes.

But Smartmom wasn’t about to bow to a 9-year-old. Nonetheless, she slept fitfully that night, fearful that Two Little Red Hens would be sold out when she showed up the next morning. What happens if some other mom swoops and grabs the entire stock of miniatures?

At 8 am, Smartmom and OSFO took Eastern Car Service to Two Little Red Hens and asked the driver to wait. To her great relief, there was a full tray of miniature cupcakes behind the bakery glass. White cake with white frosting and rainbow sprinkles, they were a veritable bargain at $1.50 each. Feeling like a birthday sport, Smartmom ordered 30.

Spending $45 dollars on cupcakes was a pittance compared with a phone-therapy session. When they got to OSFO’s classroom, one of her teachers saw the label and squealed, “That’s my favorite bakery in the world! I can’t wait.”

These are for you, Smartmom said. God knows you must be sick to death of Duncan Hines.

Smartmom held her head high, vindicated and proud. This wasn’t about being too busy to bake. This wasn’t about childhood neglect or not being a good-enough mother.

Hers was a crusade to save the teachers and children from the curse of the Duncan Hines Devil’s Food mix and the gloppy Betty Crocker frosting.

Or that’s at least what she told herself.

©2006 The Brooklyn Paper