She's eating her birthday cake.
It's not her birthday.
It's not cake.
Deb's birthday was yesterday. Instead of the usual cake she wanted some kind of weird, frosted, quasi-cake experience made from pumpkin.
Pumpkin strangeness is what she wants; pumpkin strangeness is what she gets. After all, at her age who knows how many more birthdays she has left.
"Allie! Why do you love your mommy?"
"Because I do. Because, um, well, she um, she loves me and she's a nice mommy and I was born with her and uh, uh, ARE YOU TYPING THIS?"
"Oh. Because she is my mommy and because she's part of the family and she loves me and I love her. And that's my answer. ALRIGHT?"
"Julia! Why do you love your mommy?
"Because she let's me play in the car. Because she's nice to me and I like her so much and I love her and that's it. And because she's part of the family, too. That's it. Okay?"
I had to delete the last five sentences I typed. There's no need to make fun of Debbie's advanced age. I'll just say I hope she had a good birthday and that I love her.
And not just because she lets me play in the car, too.