It’s late, and I still have a chapter to write. But tomorrow everyone will be focusing on turkey and football, so I wanted to squeeze in this entry before midnight.
My darling, funny, smart, and precocious little girl turned seven today. She wanted an ice cream cone-shaped birthday cake like the kind my mom used to make for me. Only my mom is talented, and I am not, because while I was fighting with frosting and crumbly carved cake pieces, I thought of something Angela wrote or said once, I can’t remember. It was something like, “Handmade for you with lots of s***s and d***s, happy birthday.” Only Angela didn’t censor because she’s not a delicate flower like I am. I always thought it was so funny, and so apt.
The lumpy, crumbling monstrosity actually looks much better in the photo than it did in person, but Miss K was thrilled, and I suppose that’s all that matters.
Happy birthday sweet girl. I love you to the far reaches of the endless universe and back.