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?"
"No."
"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?"
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.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Pumpkin bars are too a birthday cake. After all, you guys decorated the cream cheese frosting with writing and stuck candles in it. What more do you need?
Thank you, sweetie, and thank you for my gifts. I'm looking forward to the rest of my present (hmm, what could it be?).
Post a Comment