Wednesday, August 15, 2018


My brother came from Maryland.

The nanny from FlapJilly's infancy came.

And FlapJilly's friends were there, cuter and funnier and smarter than any group of four year old's ought to be.

Giblet and I sat on the couch, his head nestled on my chest, his eyes closed, his breathing rhythmic. Periodically, Little Cuter came by to pat my head, to hug my shoulder, to tell me she loved me, that I was The Baby Whisperer.

We went outside for Happy Birthday, came back to the couch for cake. 

A four year old's party is a fluid event. They put out their Bounce House, an inflatable joy palace. They put out the Slip and Slide and little bikini clad munchkins giggled and slipped and slid to their hearts' content. There was pizza and fruit and homemade Mac and Cheese, complimented by SIR's patented sangria.

Presents were opened, a young guest cried, most everyone remembered to receive a goodie bag, and then only family remained.  Somehow, FlapJilly managed to fall asleep, several hours after bedtime.

A fine time was had by all, especially the birthday girl, around whom  it all revolved.

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